Long Regurgitated Poems
Long Regurgitated Poems. Below are the most popular long Regurgitated by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Regurgitated poems by poem length and keyword.
Twas the night before Christmas, up in the North Pole
The pressure of the season was taking its toll
Deadlines and long hours were causing some stress
“Some” might be an understatement. They were a mess
The elves were on strike, marching angrily outside
Chanting, “Save elves on shelves” and “Santa Lied”
And for Frosty’s sake, get the bells off these shoes
This incessant jingling has driven them to booze
The reindeer were hired, part time, to cover as scabs
But they kept flying off and no one could keep tabs
Even when they were there, they just ate everything
You do not want to see droppings eaten toys can bring
Mrs. Claus was stress eating like a hoover
Three times, we’ve had to do the Heimlich maneuver
She ripped down St Nick's mistletoe like a scroogy thief
Suffice it to say, there will be no festive tension relief
As for Santa Claus, the big man in red himself
Well he’s in hot water now for punching an elf
He denied the picketers in the last negotiation
I mean, they already get 11 months of vacation….
Everything went slower for delivery without Rudolph
He’s quit the team now, and retired to play golf
So for all the hopeful dreaming little girls and boys
About a 1/3 of them will get a few regurgitated toys
Ho Ho Ho Ho............ sorry kids
Nov 28,2022
The Night before poetry contest
The unpopular
express
their popular strings
to the garrison, contained
within
safe boundaries, there,
their thoughts
pirouetting words
hung,
the black beetles
shine
like exotic
fresh water
pearls strung
waving like
green peas shelled
nonchalantly cast
into boiling pots
not of their own making
in the soup of
the fifth estate
boiled well,
swallowed
and regurgitated,
muses
the pods left wide open
floating in the nowhere
like emerald boats without sails
blinking
internal,
forever behind
the eternal fringes
Candide Diderot. ‘24
homonyms
out on the hungover gray moor
having morning coffee with the old man of the sea
we say nothing in this silvered wooden shack
lots of coats to put on, it's all very humdrum
the boat cuts through small yapping wavelets
possibly never to return, but of course we will
the mind vaults vast arenas in this place
we pass the westernmost cape on the continent
we lower the killing nets
waiting, trawling, smoking, it's a cold day
at this moment, the universe is so small, enclosed
like one cloudberry, in a much bigger bunch
all exotic fish we find like
two species of endangered turtles
even a few angry sharks
most of it unidentifiable by-catch
at the end of the day, what a haul of slime
all these words stinking in the shrinking twilight
regurgitated without end, coins without face
cliche, our deity, ready for blood sacrifice
Most I know sad but true
define themselves by the work they do
out of the workplace they're as simple
as a bump on a stump dimple on a pimple
drop in a bucket wart on a frog
cog in a wheel or log in a bog
who's to blame... yes parents are the means
for their inherited hopeless poor genes
none of my tutors were teachers as such
and with no innate abilities didn't know much
all of which which amounted to nought
and only regurgitated what they'd been taught
never met one who didn't know it all
when in fact they knew nothing at all
and if I were to look in a book I'd learn the same
but follow the leader ('herd' is the word)
was the name of their game
as for me...
who I am determines what I do
not vice versa end of story
but... how about you?
The clown juggled his feelings in front of an incredulous crowd
Life is a circus and even a fool’s manna does not fall from heaven
He had balls to impose his mask and mascara onto instant applause
Was not sure though about who was the jester of standing ovations
His delusion was the illusion of reality in preposterous meaning
An existential artist he seemed to be in retro postmodern nostalgia
Intermezzo personified with endless beginnings entombed in a grin
Cut with a razor tattooed on his skin facing an ignorant audience
True to his script he stumbled and fell short and flat of intemperate desire
Gobbled up sand mixed with elephant poo and regurgitated misplaced pride
‘I sold my soul to fake laughter but even the kids are stuck on their phones’
Past his best like a relic he assembled dust of anger and fear for the future
He had turned into a proverbial slurve a slipped metaphor of fading delight
An imposter of joyful exuberance in a tedious world that could not care less
A projection of resentment a nuisance and overdue reminder of innocence lost
He was real to himself though like a hole in a bucket draining trickles of faith
As he gathered oblivious agony and immeasurable shame and contempt
He whipped one last sphere of hope high into the canopy of sad gloom
Hoped that the contorted trapeze artist might catch his final effort to escape
She twisted dangled reached out then crushed into a net suspended in yearning
With the show over ungrateful spectators left the miserable dishonest display
The tent was locked up and the onlookers retreated into self-righteous boredom
As lions horses fleas impalement and con artists took to their cages’ containment
The clown and the acrobat slipped off the road and eloped into a promising night
17th June 2019
We are finite creations in an ever-expanding universe,
Kissed by the calcified stardust of epochs gone by.
Seized by trepidation and insecurities that stagger our growth,
Engrossed by a yearning to fit into societals manufactured boxes
Which consume creativity and individuality.
Incapacitated by force-fed paranoia,
Tormenting our artificially pristine panoramas with mangled wraiths —
Regurgitated pleasantries scribbled upon mass-produced pulp,
Courage stamped out by mass hysteria.
Revolving chains shackle dying hearts turning to stone;
Humanity hardens while heaven becomes further out of reach.
For every action has, even if unintentional, consequences.
We have silenced our own tongues,
Watched in desensitised horror as the world burns,
And now we stand frozen
As the earth cleanses itself of our parasitic invasion.
The house is boiled cabbage
goose fat, gizzard stew, and beets.
Windows steam and simmer,
you can write your name on the glass
winter or summer.
If you can live among rutabaga
or borscht; if pickled eggs haunt your palate
then this house becomes air in your lungs.
The landlady was Polish or Russian;
she spoke with a burly churlish tongue,
she moved like a Turk, her walking cane
was a scimitar. She supped a tarry tea
from a Serbian samovar.
We shared a toilet with a slim man
who was slinky and still in the closet,
he would saucily wink over strong drink.
His lips were rosy not pink. He washed
argyle socks in the kitchen sink.
There were others, they left early
riding pushbikes into the grey streets.
The lady groused, patrolled perimeters,
barged prying hands into private matters.
Hairclips and rubber bands fell from her curlers
as forewarnings and threats.
The Bulgarian or Croatian crone
had broad bad hips and liked me not
for back then
I used a substance to ease my mind.
I would smoke in the shared toilet
leaning my thin mouth through
a small slanty window,
she absolutely knew, and threw
passing daggers
with tightly curled Estonian lips.
We stayed like that for months
until the city regurgitated our lives
once more.
Once more seeking low rent rooms,
from those cosmopolitan guardians
of small city spaces.
Toothless Dragons
And so the toothless dragons roar
tepid flames of apathy staining the air
regurgitated realities revisited
picked at in search of sustenance.
Circling, they do the hating dance
feet spurred to movement by heat
applied by flaming puppeteers
protecting the strength of their strings.
Moving - the flaccid jaws of acquiescence
beholden to the controller of the strings
paralyzed by the power of weakness
voice-less orators forever pontificating.
Dragons – seeking victory’s defeat
pure fire stolen and defiled
truth’s roar relinquished to their “keeper”
free flight denied to vision’s quest.
There is no power in the grip of power
no freedom in the clutch of lies
no wisdom in the sight of “blinders”
no teeth required of the pabulum fed.
John G. Lawless
10/3/2015
"Ennui Sets In”
Whenever pen is placed
Between purloined phalanges,
When my mind unfolds and tears along the seams,
I know it’s time to move my thoughts,
Through the underground;
That dark crusty void
Of dreary dreams diminished,
Where loose hell raisers floss and shine,
Comb and spray,
As drowning voices backwash yesterday’s histrionics,
Dark-eyed winches peek through the
Centers of dead doughnuts;
Bleacher seats rust and wallow
In half-moon emancipation,
Ennui sets in…
My bow tie knows all the answers.
I cry and beseech for all those tomorrows
To resurrect, to pontificate, to loose
The bowels of screaming sunsets, yet sutured.
I flinch. I sigh.
Force majeure got in the way.
Polka dot panacea,
Wretched weasels in the underbrush,
Prufrock is the metaphor to mangle, impugn, vivify,
And otherwise squeeze until the cows come home.
I’m a poet without a message.
My heart pumps vexations of vaseline,
I am dry and empty
Like the musty moans of sweet madness,
Emanating elusively
From the hollow of ancient days,
Amidst unanswered questions,
At the fork in the road,
Two blocks northwest of my last dying breath,
I am the last sunset!
Ennui sets in.
Twilight vivisection holds the door open this time.
There is no respite,
From Raphael’s regurgitated Renaissance.
He jumps backward,
Through the darkening dissonance,
Dissolved, dismayed, dumbfounded.
Skipper Frank lies dead in the glittering gutter.
The Pancake Man melts into the waxworks.
Madame Tussaud wonders why.
Ennui sets in.
Dead meat saliva feeding
The roses of Robespierre.
Little Lord Fauntleroy is mixing martinis, and
A dozen dainty dames are dancing
Past the midnight of my time.
A blue trumpet, buzzing in the steamy shadows.
Lapping corpses line the phosphoric hillsides;
It’s not what it appears to be.
Truth and beauty perceived in the morning mirror.
Ennui sets in.
Mr Dromedary
Looked so forlorn today.
He tried to fathom out
Why he was being sent away.
A magnitude of questions
Stormed around his anxious head.
Is it my wonky gait?
Is it something I've done or said?
Is it because my regurgitated
Cud could fill a barrel?
Are my eyelashes too long?
Is it my shaggy apparel?
So many fears and insecurities
Occupied this camel.
He even contemplated
His unflossed enamel!
His severe lack of confidence
Kept his Dulla small.
Is this why the girls don't
Gel with me during mating call?
Had he strayed too many times
From the leadings of the boss?
He was in a quandary.
He was truly at a loss.
And all it boiled down to
Was another wildlife resort
Needed Mr Dromedary
To expand his sort.