Long Orifices Poems
Long Orifices Poems. Below are the most popular long Orifices by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Orifices poems by poem length and keyword.
An expression of a Nurse
I am a Nurse,
I am loved by few and hated by many
Everyday I dedicate my life to saving lives of others
From 7 o'clock in the morning to 7 o'clock in the evening
Whether its winter, whether its Summer
Day and night I sacrifice my comfort
And put myself at risk of developing deep venous thrombosis
Through standing
Swimming in life threatening infections
And deadly diseases
Yet I am loved by few hated by many.
My dedication, my determination,My willingness, my passion, my care
They are all never recognized
Only my mistakes are visible in the eyes of everyone
Because I am loved by few hated by many
From vomitus to faeces, Urine to blood, sweat to sputum
My hands discriminate none
In all body orifices they navigate to heal where it is injured
Assess where it is wrong and comfort where there is pain
From head to toe they travel to provide holistic nursing care
To bring back good health to those afflicted by sickness
Yet I am loved by few hated by many
I am a Nurse, hate me, love me
My hands will always be receptive
To accomodate your entrance.
Strike not the queen
Powerless is not how a woman Felt
When a man places his hands on her
Touch not negatively= hit/ strike her not
She's the weakest vessel and yet
Can any man give birth out of any of his orifices
That's a pain childbirth he cannot
Strike not Queen
Ever witness nor confess or contain
His hands bigger than hers his mouth bigger than hers
His chest bigger than hers and yet he will never confesses
A negative man that places his hands
On his queen Is not righteous
strike not the queen
She's Somebody's Daughter, Sister, Mother
It is no pride and overpowering a smaller vessel
The woman I confess it's no lesser
Her Grand Design she came out of man
And yet in turn man comes out of her
Keep your hands to yourself
Strike not the queen
There's no Pride in you who think you're powerful
And yet hitting/ touching Unholy mistreatment of a woman She's a queen keep your hands off her
Go to a gym that's where the punching bags are
So shall get you6 turmoil the pangs and the pains
You got no longer power here she endures in this so-called
Strike not the queen
Satan's world man should be denied should be embarrassed To comply to the negativities of the treatment of our Queens We should lift them up cover them treat them royally
For they are the best of yet for you are not a man
If you have to lay your hand on the queen they're not punching bags
strike not the queen
Remember this one thing God has hands too but it is with His mouth
It's the love of His son Jesus Christ who will speak unto you
Saving you so, He a loving God who forgives more than you ever know
Keep your hands to yourself
Strike not the queen
Turnaround repent put your hands together praise God
Open upthise fist reach high in the sky lift up Jesus
Thank God for a queen thank God for intervene
let's start embracing again
That's caress our Queens lift them up stop being mean
They came from God and us and let us keep them lifted up jointly together we embrace them in Jesus
You know what it means strike not your Queen
10/17/22
Written words by James Edward Lee (c)2022
Hold your tongue, tie it up tight,
for a loose tongue that strays in devious ways,
can slip and cut deep, too quick, right to bone.
It wags the dog, flaying in many ways failing.
Telltale tongues come in many forms:
A tongue forked splits and deceives.
A sweet tongue tempts the sweet tooth.
A slick tongue twists and charms the crowd,
Tongue in cheek, is a jovial jester in play.
A tongue twister, taunts and defies is suppleness.
A hidden tongue is what the stray cat got,
while waiting to pounce on tidbit poke.
A red tongue protruding betwixt clenched lips
can mean many things, in a ventriloquist vent.
A lighthearted tease, a flirty wink.
A way to focus, concentrate or consider.
A sign of doubt or embarrassment.
A quest to taste what's yet to come.
A glib tongue, so smooth and fleet,
can twist and intrude and entwine
in ears, mouths and other orifices.
A fiery tongue is much mightier than the sword,
reshapes the world with every word,
that wields truth, lies and deceit,
from the lashes the tongue whips into shape.
Ah! the tongue, out or in
tells such tattle tales,
in words it shapes, in tastes it quakes,
into crevices it silently sneaks right in.
So keep it wet, slimy, lithe and subtle
to come out and play, or be kept at bay
as needs arise for every occasion and situation.
Auburn swirls of wind-laden leaves
coast to the cleat-torn orifices
of soggy, mud-clung grass.
That massed flapping pile time capsule
of summer sunsets is crushed with entering steps
like the rusting rain refrain.
A shorn sheep freezes from dusk until dawn,
following a downward descending path,
tattered and weather worn.
Stepping stone pieces beneath our feet
beat against earthen clay
like the rusting rain refrain.
Stammering to speak for apathy's tragedy,
words are heard like Braille to a layman,
as tin roof dripping resounds loudly
for failure to embrace its sloping surface.
September's sobs streak down beauty's cheeks
like the rusting rain refrain.
A farewell feast of forbidden wheat
bloats our bellies into swells, stirring grief.
Playtime is rushed to sleep with resistance,
as cinderblock thoughts toss and turn
until drifting becomes corroding numbness
like the rusting rain refrain.
I adopt dainty etiquette
when quenching thirst or dining
to buzzfeed growling beast
inside me tummy.
The missus requests obedience
raising both my little fingers in the air
upon taking beverage or repast to lips.
Additionally, she also requires I
(well healed husband who toes the line)
perform dance shuffle - think clog
feigning to trip over feet
as if yours truly quaffed to much grog
while balancing atop log.
Miss iz manners re: lee the spouse
sets prime example being lady like,
what with her belching and snorting
of course with mouthful of food
no surprise she nurtured impolite brood
raised on learning language crude
even this Geico caveman exhibits
less coarse attitude,
he likens himself to subdued dude
trying his darnedest (golly gee)
to avoid family feud
general behavior hashtagged as rude
linkedin with antics qualified as lewd
encouraged nsync while
slurping or masticating in the nude,
whereby other body sounds made
unsuitable for strait laced and prude
folks who don't take a fancy hearing
so called uncouth soundclouds exude
out body orifices considered foul,
inapropos and extremely lewd
when unless quarantined in solitude.
One upside of COVID-19
postprandial aural emanations
(all time favorite flatulence)
knows no outward bounds
unless colorectal explosions
register highest magnitude
when measured in concert
with handy dandy
blues clues rattle seismometer
and register courtesy
Richter Scale and the Mercalli Scale
direction and intensity of earthquakes.
Upon experiencing aforementioned prime mate
i.e. the bellowing gal offering herself as ahem
(pardon the double entendre) master bait,
I knew from the get go
Tex-Mex Connection
in North Wales, Pennsylvania
where we shared our first date
(outsize bean burritos)
I tooted my own horn,
she unwittingly got me into checkmate,
just for that her fate got sealed,
when our respective gametes
(ova and sperm cells respectively)
new life we did miraculously create
the first of two female offspring
would become housed in utero
and come to resemble
a spheroid somewhat oblate
even now unnamed counterpart,
(and partner in crime) still swell person
hook hood benefit to lose some weight,
cuz... well adipose freight
quite ample around equator.
I live trapped in a basket of predators,
their skulls crammed with futile idleness.
They celebrate misery like a morbid feast,
with the suicidal arrogance of heirs to nothingness.
The flames of humanity have burned away
in the abyss of their barren souls.
They worship the anarchy of weapons,
I see nothing but fields of ruins.
Their battles are the masquerades of capital,
poverty spreads across the Earth like a plague,
and the closeness of deprivation becomes a nightmare.
I spit upon their rotten idols,
those false sanctities with profaned orifices.
I have piled up sins to taste the ecstasy of raw freedom.
Born from the wounded entrails of the Third World,
I refuse to bow before the putrefaction of consumerism.
Free from the origin, yet prisoner of a banana republic
delivered to the savage plunder of predatory empires.
I fight my demons in the trenches of the mind
to adorn my reality with fleeting mirages of this convulsive world.
They consign me to the dungeons of their alienation,
but I rise, insurgent against their servitude.
Almonds encased in hard red candy
Brandy from snow white walnuts
Collateral damage to the left front bumper of the sled
Dietary restrictions on anything considered a spice
Everything more often wins the day
Francesca left her pie though (no one will eat that)
Gluwein, go get it, we need it now
Hysterical colors spin all around me
Illicit behavior may well be tolerated though only after 10pm
Jellybeans are being shoved into orifices now
Knives are being put away for the safety of everyone here (especially Dwayde)
Lathering up all the kid's faces now to resemble tiny maniac Santas
My mother is making tea
No one will drink
Octopussy is playing in the background
Phantasmagoria bread pudding
Quickly tell me who ate all the bread pudding
Round them up and shoot them
Seriously
The only thing I ever eat is the bread pudding and everyone knows it
Unusual cravings now
Vertical with help from the wall
Waiting for someone named Misty to return from her car with her white elephant
Xenon purple body
Yuletide clopping going on inside my head
Zesty reds streak across the insides of my eyelids
He was an old male with some years still to go.
Testing the air he could smell something alluring
that heated his blood and sent him into must.
Thick mucus ran from his eyes and other orifices
and at full speed he followed the scent,
other animals fled as he trampled by.
Intent on only one thing fifty miles away
he crashes through all in his way.
trumpeting his desire as he goes.
On arrival the other males cede
as he charges through them to her.
She has waited refusing all others.
Knowing that he was on the way
an awesome sight as dripping he mounts.
At last done he is soon again on his way.
His must will last several days so time
is against him as from female to female
he goes leaving in them all his seed.
Cast aside, he plummets to the desolate earth.
Hymns of his treacherous heart consume his ears.
Tears aren’t shed, pleads aren’t wailed
He’s left atop the desecrated hollow ground.
Azrael, the Angel of Death, come
snuff out his remaining life.
Azrael, take up your bloodied scythe,
carve off his wings,
and leave clotting crescent scars on his back.
He needs his wings no more.
Kiss a crimson smile upon his neck,
he’ll not sing anymore.
Left broken, flies descend upon him.
The flies sing a song of lies.
Devouring the words, he wished he had heard
at the time of his descent.
Chewing away at who he was
Ushering in who he will become.
Neither an angel,
Nor a man.
But something else.
The flies swarm the pit.
His body lies at the center of the crater.
A crimson smile graces his neck.
Murky eyes yearn heavenward.
Maggots nested within his flesh,
eating away at his unbeating heart.
Crawling through his veins
Multiplying, devouring, transforming
The quaking rot of his new body
Bleeds veiny wings
that beat against the blackened earth.
His baptism is a vile mass of
maggots, blood, songs, and flies.
His new body
Ugly, but defined.
Flies dance upon his unblinking eyes,
He can’t cry. His tears have since dried.
The fall desiccated his eyes, stealing his cries.
Ears echoing with fading hymns,
He is dead but persists in consciousness.
Maggots worm out from his red smile,
forcing him to gurgle,
“I am the Lord of Flies”
The flies buzz in victory,
Using their teeth
the maggots squirm out of his orifices
hatching from his flesh.
They raise their bodies heavenwards,
In praise of their new lord.
Ugh, Why Must The Missus Vacuum At The Crack Of Dawn?
(circa: early December 27, 2018 morning)
There appears to be a
virulent (possibly deadly) strain
of housekeeping virus
Hoover ring in the air
asymptomatic tentatively linked to rein
deer droppings (micro-organisms) blare
ring and trumpeting beyond
the threshold to humans, though plain
lee send audible wavelengths
to symbiotic species clear
as a bell, which organisms don
nano size MAGA hats, and main
lee set up shop in carpet threads,
and chiefly thrive on deer
pellets, where one bee bee
gun size bullet serves long lane
of critters unseen can easily
make headway into ear,
eyes, nose, et cetera other
orifices, and Kane
inject unsuspecting vacuum sealed
byproduct to forswear
unsightly piles of dirt, debris,
dust bunnies, which Jain
Dharma would find
appalling horrifically glare
ring at desecrating supposed germ
carrying pests calling utterly inane,
the constant effort
to keep house beautiful heir
ruled ding disinfectant resistant,
whether mite tee Germaine,
or itty bitty teensy weensy siblings
many named Oh Fair
Roe One Wade for me, nonetheless seek
out porous fleshy terrain
allowing, enabling and providing
pinhead size portal
i.e. vector to engineer
transmitting a fast
acting alien entity
without any explain
nation, an immediate urge to spruce up
the place applying interlinear
trigonometry (of course adhering to
Feng Shui when rearranging), without drain
ning, lessening, zapping,
et cetera, but meer
really loose sing a whirling dervish
(mini tornado) fiercely
finding the spouse on feverish spree
to clean entire apartment chain!