Long Orifices Poems
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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.
At the cradle of my nightmares,
My future is a horror film,
I track my ghosts,
Like a junkie in withdrawal.
I am a true clandestine calamity,
A mass grave of silent suffering,
A candelabra of pain soothed by dirty money,
I hate the human race,
And I will never have a pet.
I am a loner addicted to silence.
I only write in the dark, to deathly sounds.
A mix of gloomy feelings,
I walk in the darkness of my imperfections,
My hands are no longer innocent,
Since I’ve handled weapons of war.
I am a child of the slums of the third world,
I know perfectly the orifices of misery.
Another damn sleepless night spent monologuing in the darkness of this cold room,
The devil covers his ears to the atrocities spilling from my confessions.
I’ve already used gunpowder
For a firework on the edge of legality.
I never agreed to sleep on an empty stomach,
I’ve risked my freedom since I was ten.
I’ve learned to walk among hungry beasts.
I’m already at war with my demons,
I know I’ll end up in the flames.
I know I have no right to trust a human being,
Being a slave to shine is impossible.
My enemies squat in my imperfect flesh.
I don’t smoke crack,
I don’t smoke cannabis,
I don’t snort cocaine,
I don’t drink alcohol,
I sometimes burn a few cigarettes.
I avoid psychotropics,
I’m not a poet,
Just a tormented mind,
Prisoner of infernal loops,
Where murder scenes repeat endlessly.
My tears stopped flowing down my cheeks
Since I saw my friend crushed by a logging truck.
I am an angry man with murderous impulses,
I commit suicide each time in this same nightmare that has repeated since my childhood.
I’m approaching fifty,
I’ve stopped meditating on the whims of the reaper,
I’ve stopped wandering in graveyards.
Let the universal force show mercy on my impure, tainted soul
By the poisons of lust,
I accumulate transgressions to have a throne in the furnaces of hell.
I don’t believe in paradise, but I know I’ll burn in the abyss’s celestial flames after my twilight.
A deep philosophical reflection in the ramblings of my delirium.
I hate the spotlights like those criminals on the run,
Too many regrets hidden in the closets,
A clean criminal record like the entrails of Christ’s mother.
I blaspheme to darken my divine fragment.
I am a purple headed chicken with glass beads. I like to roam the wooded glades. I often wear a pair of shades. It shields my precious amethyst eyes from the glare of the sun. Such heat corrodes such orifices. But producing a grin as I pass the goblin who gazes ay my feathers in an admiring stare. Then I make my way up the tree and use the vines to swing over to my favourite picnic spot by the lake. Mrs squirrel has made an amazing spread of acorn nectar which I peck up at great speed. Lovely wild mushrooms mixed with bracken. A treat as I sit in my woodland dream. But oh no what is that? That terrible noise? And why is it so very dark? I feel squashed. My throat is dry. Where are my woods? Oh no I am here and not in my sanctuary. I must claw at the sides of this thing. Far to restrictive. Cant even flap. And isnt that Myra, and Hettie I can hear clucking. If I get out then I will get them out too. Wait for those passing stomping boots and that noise must be on as I go. Means the end of a life but if I can rescue some of my friends it will be fantastic and plucky too. Plucking up the courage she began to claw and finally broke through. Squashing through the tiny bars she found her friends and instructed them how to release. Then one by one they flew up and up and up into the night air. Using the rest of their power gained by finding three pieces of corn on the floor of that place. The ceiling had a sky light which was barely wide enough to squeeze a potato but they managed to kick it whilst beating their wings. Finally having released themselves they soared across to the woods in the distance. Where they were greeted by a squirrel in a patterned apron and chefs hat. Wow Mrs squirrel is real. Not just in my dream. Mrs squirrel smiled and greeted her and her friends. Now you will have safety here amongst the trees. Later you can visit the lake. Then the blanket was dutifully laid and the birds sat down to enjoy their feast. Feasting feathers find fun. Then they spent the future swinging from the vines, visiting the lake for regular picnics, singing with the woodland choir, and working the soil with their claws and beaks. To earn a crumb is to earn a crust. And crusts are neither crumbles nor couplets crouching. Cluck cluck cluck. Ornithomania
Form:
Upon our (yours truly and his missus) exchanging holy matrimony vows
Ultrasound allowed, enabled
and provided obstetrician to zoom,
image courtesy sonogram
showing fledgling fetus,
thus we pledged our troth after spouses' womb
(approximately halfway
between her pregnancy) did balloon
uterus, wherein conception
delineated birth of eldest daughter, and many a tomb
morrow later she resides in Oakland, California.
I attempt reasonable rhyme about...
oh happy yesteryear
when newly minted groom (me) wed bride
family in attendance cried
as Justice of Peace officiated as legal guide
extolling pregnancy of she who could not hide
figurative bun in the oven which matured inside
after two gametes fused and multiplied
countless times quickly birthing embryo
baby on the way nullified
application of premarital sex
and attendant use of contraceptives.
Clear out of the blue
thee wife asked me
opinion if wedded bliss between us
ha, how heretical to think otherwise
since romance long since flew
out the figurative window
impossible mission to feign significant other
analogous to brand new
alluring, beguiling, captivating... tchotchke.
All kibitizing aside, a requited love with zeal
I attest invisible spokes support unseen wheel
when turning sparking genuine care and concern
act as buffer against emotional hemorrhage
and received good housekeeping approval seal
more applicable to most recent
elapsed wedding day anniversaries
ex post facto after both daughters flew the coop
finding me reeling with empty nest syndrome,
whenever yours truly reviews mental newsreel,
now absence of offspring, akin
to psychological wound I did heal
no longer mourning natural course
of begetting progeny more readily
accepting their necessary autonomy doth appeal.
Though marriage devoid of physical intimacy wife
get along swimmingly, we exhibit less strife
than days of yore effulgence promulgated
to all readers unbeknownst to human life
form characterized by bloke,
whose words appeared across screen
exemplifying, embodying, and edifying
regarding beloved simian counterpart
bandying playfully sometimes
drubbing and drumming my body
while she (commandeering
certain orifices of her body) emulates sounds of fife.
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
The colored pains are carved onto the back of my ancestors’ history.
My oppressors see my Africanness as a curse,
the rotten fruit of savagery, slavery, and the barbarity of colonization.
The blackness of my skin has made me a suspect since the cotton fields.
I am from the cradle of humanity.
I grew up in a colonial trading post.
My homeland never had factories that manufactured weapons of war,
yet I know how to handle a Kalashnikov like those child soldiers.
My first shock: an infant, cut to pieces and stuffed in a sack hanging from a palm tree.
After the colonial massacres, dead cities to soften the cruelty of a bloodthirsty dictatorship.
I share the same convictions as those independence fighters
that the general’s colonial army labeled as “rebels.”
I am neither a suburban kid nor a ghetto dweller.
I took my first steps in a shantytown of Equatorial Africa.
Some cross the Mediterranean toward the Western tyranny of misery,
while others choose the illicit path to shine in the gloomy cells of capitalism,
lit by the flashing lights of the “Republic of Enlightenment” slavers.
These Western impostors treat Africa like an open-air dump,
while their neo-colonial military bases protect the safety of multinational corporations
that have been savagely plundering Africa’s wealth for centuries.
They finance Islamic terrorist groups so that African dictators
can sing the globalist symphonies of Western democracy.
I am a Sub-Saharan animist like the first pharaohs.
I remember the massacre of the Amerindians
when I see African Americans filling the prisons of a nation born from genocide.
My holy land is Africa.
I will never submit to the negrophobic laws
of supremacists indoctrinated with the vile delusions of the Third Reich.
I remember Pope Nicholas V’s papal bull
when I see the Catholic Church meddling in the political affairs
of Africa’s banana republics.
Slave blood in my veins,
in my heart too much pain, only love, no hate.
My conscience has never been chained.
My criminal record remains spotless,
like the orifices of the Christ’s own mother.
(There's a thirteenth 'zodiacal' constellation, Ophiucus, The Serpent Wrestler/Holder, or the "Twelth Symbol," as here used. In some ancient cultures, serpents were revered as feminine symbols of rebirth/healing, and bees as symbols of wisdom, while Roman catholicism considered coffee to be the "wine of infidels" until the 15th. century. Historically, Ophiucus may never have been used in astrology, though it is the house between Scorpio and Sagittarius in a astrological system purportedly developed in the mid-1900's, making Sagittarius the thirteenth sign in such a system - thus in this poem, "the Twelth Symbol" was "usurped by what used to be the thirteenth". Of course, "Good Ol' Triple Six" and other numerical variations thereof in this work refer to 666, the mythological number of the Anti-christ.)
___
I want a jeezus, unsweetened, decaffeinated, no additives -
- certainly no booze or needle tracks -
because I want a trim, uptight jeezus, totally pure and constipated
to pimp for the face-down with the Great-to-the-nth Numeral-Triplet,
because the descendant number of my measureless time
is a Trinity of the fourth primes-of-eighteen (no xeroxing
needed!)...
... my godpappy, William Blake, gone loony out of his goddam mind
over visions of seraphim and angels,
slapping the jaggedly unholy rhythm of a bawdy tune on my new-born
butt
while in drag he baptizes y'hweh in drag...
... and I want you to know
that my razor isn't my father's
road-hog...
... smoothin' along, instead of Jacko Kerowacko in my briefs, just
the road of excess still somewhere on the map,
while the bottom line is
that it's all as cheap as a Walmart `ho, though why not plumb the
sacred profanity
of All Animalism in the ditch just along that road
instead of blasphemating in a line way too long at The Mart?
"Can't wait, dude, gotta' get my *jive, here and now, `cause the
marquee says", `Drive-by Lyrics Smack-Down Between Marilyn Manson
And Good Ol' Triple-Six' '', farting rhythms and rhymes
from all orifices of His five-and-a-half shooter off His uncouth
butt -
(continued in Part 2)
Night of the full moon
Whale fish are most adept at swimming around in a shot glass but glass goblets are preferred by dolphins whose long dorsal fin opts for wide open rimmed spaces. Stingrays desire to be seen in the most finest crystal glasses but the flat fish is only ever seen in a tumbler. Often tumbling. And giggling with pure delight. But what of ambition from all these creatures. Would they not want to swap? Are they ever content with their locations? Omnipresent octopi often offer octagonal orifices. The vertical verb of a naughty little variegated platy can vary a variant victoriously. How rather marvellous that is isn't it?
Instinct ink can inform. But ink that is mislaid, misinformed and generally mundane is confused and confusion can offer creations canopies of catastrophic chasms. Mingle in a mangle then. Up and down the threads. Obviously a straight ironed trousers. Hemmed. Could see straight through 27 pairs of skirts in rows and point out the pin marks.
Awkward antelope answering apostle ants?How quite amazing! Well it is isn't it? And the gathering of the buds upon the washing line can hang out in all weathers. Thus ensuring an even radius of elements to dry, wet then dry again. Broad shoulders of a bean. Big bloated buffalo's beating banging bongo's. Baboon laughs and laughs and laughs and lingers on leaves no more for the beat is too amazing to place himself in such a confined positional place but heated propositions from a piglet often sway the breezes. And the backwards running tap always laughs at the dandelion in flight. Because it is very very very funny indeed!
WOW
Running ruining radii ravish radishes ridiculing realities. Such reduction in a nylon beaded glove. And gloves of a geranium are often glowing and glowering at the same time. Such a simultaneous display of floral fragrant feats.
WOW
Fiddle fathoms fish fetching forks finely.
Z at the X lauwiliwilinukunuku?oi?oi Z to X
At 46 mealworms chatting over a nice cup of tea at a garden fete to 19 cackling teapots dressed in wintry jumpers smoking.
X
Form:
A portly partridge, a kale coloured koala and a lecherous lion were climbing up a snow covered precipice in a first gear shake. The beating of the engine spike of deathly chills and the iced tipped trees stood erect and only spoke once a day in such adverse weather conditions. Timed well was the trotting mare and hound who signalled maneuvers with hooves and paws which were then simultaneously broadcast in silhouette style across the vast landscape. Thus ensuring that the need for appropriate shoe wear was obsolete and the desire to change into a curtain was quickly alleviated for the rug proved to be a warmer and safer option at this time. Optionally optics opened orifices ornately. And powers arrived in a small jar of white whistling whiskey then whisked was whiskers waiting, warbling and walking. Wallingford castle and heritage began. In a snapped swapped series shown on a watch on a break. For audiences of many many podiums were clapping but assaulting the many written deeds which were then swept up by a six inch metal cuckoo clock. Magnify that then. And the snore from a mn abominable bull was businesses beckoning business in a pound dollar Yuan style but printed paper playing poker was arguing with a simplistic grinning cheese board in a cavern furnished to a very high standard. With a tank of fish overhead. Sharks. A swimming pool. Heated. Like a pool. A large sealed off chamber with an entrance under a road going up up up. And that was the land of the vegetable man with bulbous eyes, the bull in tight fitting suit and the snooker champion with an insect head. Round round round goes the house in a heap. Clapping clams chasing cauliflower club. Haha digital data dog. Haha fork fried xxxxx opticromistical Z z z Z
Form:
“Step into my office, young novice
Clear off the tears from your face
Because they’re pointlessly burrowing into orifices
Tuning wounds that will bloom into a fixed gear race
Shift from fifth gear to disgrace
And if you don’t have anything to say about today
Then trust these crooked, red-rimmed and emerald, eaten, eyes:
Tell lies.”
Harbouring fostered promises to decorate the walls of his mind
It’s in this presidential suite where his highest hopes are hanged
On a residential street with six foot of rope in his left hand
With no name, no post code, not a scratch on a map
Just a decade of decadence and a panicked attack on the senses
These walls
Adorned with but not defined by their views
Of the nature, that,
By passing from one room to one room
The effect is a walk back
Through grave, rave, and womb
And this life, flashed before four eyes flickers fragments of favoured tunes
Accompaniments to occasions, partnered to soothe
But if scarred walls in suite thoughts caused this crescendo of crimson
Then it’s the tightest rope that he walks as he walks within them
A single-minded reason is mightier than both sword and pen
Because this form of self-deceiving is a shortcut walked by so many men
As I witnessed in a gallery where the artwork was just a bloodstain
And the only vanity the artists knew was a simple word, almost spelt the same
He sleeps inside a tower reduced to rubble, which he calls Babel
But in a certain light, in the deep of night, it looks like his reward for staying faithful
But when it doesn’t, he’ll rent a room, he’ll book the presidential suite
Taking in the views to the intoxicating beats
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