Long Nauseating Poems
Long Nauseating Poems. Below are the most popular long Nauseating by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Nauseating poems by poem length and keyword.
There’s this nauseating feeling
deep inside my chest.
An agonizing flame,
searing my flesh.
It boils,
always trying to escape.
It begs
and it pleads.
I don’t let it.
I have seen what it does
when I part my lips.
Fresh and wet,
my voice drips out
when I let it speak.
It has already learned
the shape of my words,
the rhythm of my tongue,
the curve of my spine,
and every writhing knot
that lives inside my stomach.
It pretends I’m fine,
vying for release
as it claws its way out of me...
I am not fine.
It constricts my throat
until only it speaks.
Silence is its key,
which it twists in my bowels...
Then it takes over.
It leaves a viscous trail.
No one thinks to listen
as I disappear,
while it slithers
and seeps
into my veins.
They hear my voice fade
beneath the thing
they believe is me,
while what remains of me
congeals into sludge,
smeared across the floor.
So what is left
but it?
Rodin’s thinker felt deeply misrepresented in his pose
he had been simply doing his business in privacy but
paparazzis had caught him seemingly sitting on a rock
nothing on his mind but having a pee after a night out
too much beer with his mates in the pub and all that
was on his mind was whether there were painkillers
in the vanity unit to soothe his nauseating hangover
twitter went mad and the tabloids fronted his image
raised him onto the dubious pedestal of iconic status
attested him with clarity of thought and contemplation
he had only been looking at the bathroom mirror and
counting tiles and toothpaste stains in the marble sink
did not mind so much that he was nude in portraits
they painted because the truth must be stark naked
and he was not one to falsify events and their cause
but taking his ablutions out of context made him
feel shame rather than reason for he was abused
in nature’s call and his wife might object but he would
never again sit down on the loo when having a tinkle
10th March 2021
Some dude from
vinyl city revs engine
of his dirt bike to the max
blasting the air
testosterone roars throughout
his every bone and fiber
broadcasting deafening
nauseating mating clear
*****sapien primal
(atavistic urge) culled dear
ring lee from bajillion
years old genealogy,
sans chromosomal
blueprint in heir
writ tens of thou
sands sieve generations
ah...momentarily, there
pervades a stillness,
which golden imponderable
silence savored heavenly,
gloriously, and fully with delight,
unsure when the next fume ming
fuel blast will excite
the truant high
school kid delinquent
stinting precious
education, viz flight
o' fancy to race beginning
at dawns early light
ear splitting unmuffled
noise pollution,
where exhaust smoke billows
akin to tethered kite
blending with rarified
atmosphere height,
as wisps snake
skyward eventually
getting dispersed amidst bright
amidst soundcloud
clear out of sight,
which brief interlude of quietude
near painful silence to bear
ah...thank dog the
wind in the willows
soon replete with blare
ring blitzkrieg bomb
bard ding doth declare
ring foolish time
wasting youth
desultory cavalierly,
blithely and aimlessly gear
rill less lee spinning away life
with nary a blues clues care!
Edamus et bibamus ...
Today is a general party ...
Hellish turmoil, subside,
bacchanal, diabolical feast!
Joy, euphoria, abuse...
Gigantic ball ... real hell,
artificial sky ... hysteria!
Laughter, smiles, screams, kisses ...
Loose nerves, adrenaline
almost explosion, almost stroke ...
Beer, coca, tequila, cannabis ...
Unleashed senses, consciences
nauseating ...
Pubs, bars, alleyways,
madness in the alleys ...
There is no tomorrow!
There is a long day,
endless night,
enjoyment ...!
Before, all "alive",
now early morning ...
Tomorrow came ...
All dead
contaminated ...
All invited,
covidados ... Covid,
is the King ... the God,
the devil... !
No rhyme nor reason why
yours truly recalled how
me late mother
(earlier in her fitbit livingsocial years)
non verbally communicated disgust
(insync with audible sigh)
quite often ultimatums
blasting fulminating nauseating
scathing well nigh
she loosed loathing against
grungy looking son (guess who)
futilely escaped wrath of Harriet Khan
clamoring upon rooftop high
offering birds eye view
out of earshot and eyesight aye
catching sunbeams while smiling wry
cowardly lion sought divine intervention
courtesy sheltering sky
acres of shingles I sprawled
these lovely bones did lie
property of garden variety generic guy.
She who helped beget and birth
sole heir inheriting gamut of behavioral quirks
linkedin with many predecessors,
who trod, slunk, roamed...
across planet Earth.
Best bet said present day scribe i.e.
poetic, nonesstablishmentarian, liberal,
jesting, humble, freelance, dilatory bummer
whose hindsight evinced a student dumber
than his classmates wheedled
(as targeted scapegoat) by bullies their flummer
re: entrapped - worse louse than lice
internalized trauma left figurative tread marks
analogous to raging road runner
pressing accelerator pedal of hummer
driven by (an actual person) one Roger Kummerer.
Despite agonizing vicious tongue lashing
against flesh and blood,
which venomous invisible whiplash
never petered out
(even when sundry bloke
got married and gladly left home)
abusive treatment markedly
left appalling, loathing and percolating
ambivalence if though mama passed away
(these last seventeen plus years) wrung
cash crop of poetic endeavors,
albeit resultant lackluster
literary crafted aspirations.
Memory of mom overshadowed
by similar facsimile thereof
think shrieking banshee,
an indelible psychological imprimatur,
I strive to acknowledge
emotional reverberations to date
(May 27th, 2021).
My trademark wordsmith fashioned communiqué
impossible mission to shake off bittersweet feelings
toward once (former) Arthur Murray dance instructor
which fancy footwork synchronized with favorite
debonair handsome young fella (papa)
both flirts buoyant with elan and energy
only thru death will angst become free
interestingly enough hands will clap with glee.
I find bananas nauseating,
this sugary fruit really a berry;
a curvy yellow thing some call captivating,
I don't care- how many benefits dietary!
Odious the smell,
and just hideous as well.
After arriving home deteriorating,
looking like an alien creature scary;
claims of healthy so agitating,
and don't try to hide- a loaf creating!
The dark spots vile,
especially when in a pile.
_____________________________
January 10, 2018
Poetry/Rhyme/My Blue Cheese is Bananas
Copyright Protected, ID 18-9815-13-01
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
F is my flavor as you feel me coming, I taste like garlic and gunpowder. nauseating you as I bubble in your throat louder and louder
I is for what i ignite, memories of spilled milk and tears, memories of being left behind over the years
G is the glimmer of joy I bring you, you dont want to like hurting others, but you do, this pain can’t be forgotten, if you suffer than they must too
H is for the hurt in their eyes as venom spills from your lips, you remember a time not to long ago when it was you with that ache, when it was you who was made stronger from the fact other wanted you to break
T is what I take, when I take everything around and tear it all down, till your left with nobody in your life except me, my coldness an invisible thorny crown you can’t see
Fight is for a never ending cycle. The hurt hurts and gets hurt. And the victim turn persecutors. I will never let you win. I will only leave you alone
I turn off damn ringer,
nonetheless...
telephone still buzzes
twenty four seven
eight days a week
automated telephone calls
digitally recorded message
perfectly spoken English
differentiation to distinguish
"FAKE" simulation
all bot impossible
totally immune to escape
gagging hospitable invective
electronic jawboning immunized
against antipathy, cruelty, enemy,
hostility, insecurity, pleasantry
Yukon run to tallest mountain
dive into Mariana Trench
get catapulted into
outer limits of twilight zone,
yet NEVER be free and clear
getting wirelessly zapped
with visual ad audiological
offal dregs and spam
oh... , yes even after life,
while weightlessly
pinwheeling in limbo,
particularly during eternal sleep,
when dead souls repose
six feet deep
or corpse undergoes cremation...
yepper, infiltration into atomic core
blithely battered, jimmied,
cherry lee pitted, tweaked,
worse fate than return of Zombies
electrical essential existential
incorporeal surreal auditory ordeal
spurs indiscriminate human
to relish golden silence
spawning best selling novel
to flesh out fiction
Utopian treasured island story
winning unknown author
instant acclaim and glory
describing village people
livingsocial, free and clear
without annoyingly,
egregiously, infuriatingly,
maddeningly, quaveringly
vexing, nauseating, disrupting
blitzkrieg courtesy aggravating
trumpeting autonomous programs
hijacking brainstorming concentration
thwarting aim tug get back on target
(even when carrying on camping)
sundering coalescence
regarding colonizing black screen
aborted doomed genesis
of brilliant fleeting idea,
thus one smart
generic garden variety
longfellow forced to
grovel along boulevard
of broken dreams.
Any resemblance between above
hyperbole and living persons
purely coincidental!
I feel a nauseating revulsion to see scraps of prose
Bundled together in a neatened pile in the name of poetry,
And prizes being awarded for such otiose verbiage
And praises being heaped for such boring coquetry.
Poetry, my dear uninitiated impostors,
Is the language of the mute solemn gods.
You ought to choose your nifty title well
And thus commence your verse against the odds.
Avoid Soyinka’s worn-out style of incompetent blank verse,
Instead, give it the rhyme scheme of the unbeatable Yeats;
The superior verse that one Tom Mboya has never read,
The taste that a Kenyan editor will haul over the rooftop sheets.
Line after line beg the company of some higher Muse
So that you may pen the will of the gods and not your own;
Alliterate here and there though you must not make it your aim,
Then lunge into deeper thought with a deity-like melancholy tone.
And never seek fame for your sacred poetic tasks.
Leave the young to sing your lyrics centuries upon your death,
And remember a great weaver of rhymes long deceased
And pray and wish you immortal blissful health.
Yup ... there's no question about it,
I'm talking about sex, and all the
Calamity and comedy that surrounds.
Yet I'm not sure if the destiny will
Defer to the clumsy, or if it will
Remain nerve-racking on all grounds.
Because seriously, it is by far the most
Common and popular topic, that virtually
Everyone is scared to death to talk about.
Starting with the basics, the birds & bees,
Before graduating to STD's, I often
Wonder if the birthrate is in doubt.
This nauseating nervousness stays with
Us always, from the first dance to the
Last nuptial that we profess.
So as long as those butterflies keep
Flittering, we might get lucky with a
Sexual encounter, I guess.
It seems ironic that something so natural,
Can bestow so much anxiety with the
Mere thought of its success.
While we fumble along, sometimes pulling
A loose foot out of our mouth, but who knows,
We've done more with less.