Long Soiling Poems
Long Soiling Poems. Below are the most popular long Soiling by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Soiling poems by poem length and keyword.
Ballet of Death
As trumpets prepare emotions
This sordid art knows well
My hooves stomp impatiently
Raising clouds of dust
Enshrouding my entrance
With shouts and whistles
A crowd's tense moments
Engulf this gladiator's arena
Demanding courage and blood
Far away
The grassy hills
Of his Ganaderias estate
Stands my sire
Now out to pasture
Erect and proud
Amidst sadness retirement brings
Once close to arena fame
Determined better as stud
He raises his head
The air has changed
He knows the scent of fear
The distance it can travel
He scrapes the ground
The matador awaits the pageantry
I shoulder my pen bars
Holding back muscled power
Energy primed for destruction
My challenger readies his cape
I squint at the sun through dusty air
A beast's freedom that might have been
Were not this
My first time
Most likely
My last time
Such brutal grandeur awaits
Stage one Banderilleros
Astride proud mounts
Parading to applause
Preparing to tempt my will
Their colorful presence
To test my vision
The picadors await stage two
Armed with lance
Saddled atop padded and blindfolded steeds
Ready to break my will
What will their first piercing feel like?
Will my neck be numb for the rest
Or will it but set afire my zeal to live?
Banderilleros anticipate stage three
Their barbed banderillas
Flag-like with colored local papers
Held ready to weaken my neck further
My loins tremble with hope
Knowing my destiny is to charge
Expend my energy
Then... trample my own blood
As the magnificent matador and I
Perform our finite ballet
This dance of death
My enclosure's bolt is about to be lifted
Soon
Very soon
The matador's flourishing cape
Its crimson and gold tricks of ecstasy
Will swirl about and around
The stoic-faced tempter
Suddenly grinning with anticipation
While soiling himself
The piercing will come
I'll not allow pain any glory
I will drool
Defecate
Urinate
My legs will buckle
The sword now in my neck
The nerves failing my brain
Blood loss weakening my heart
Suffering passing quickly
I'll at last experience
Man's insane pleasure
My fallen passion
Bathed in blood
Dragged away by rope and horse
So many hours
So many training capes
So many horses taunting me
So many chances to fail into freedom
Chances to be respected
Like my father
Faithful father
I will miss you
I try to drive, but I know I’m not fit.
The road is bumpy, who’ll take me through?
I try to move forward, but I end up in a ditch.
The weather is foggy, who else will lead me but you?
I need you forever in my life,
Who else guides me all the way, till I’m through?
You are always there for me because of your love.
Forever I desire nothing else, but only you.
Just as the driver controls the wheels of his car,
Take my life as such and guide me on the path which Thou has chosen for me.
And just as the pigeon feed her babies with food from her mouth,
Feed me with the word of Thy mouth for in Thy Word is life.
A co-pilot? No! I don’t need a co-pilot,
I need You to come and live in my heart,
I do not want my ways to be of just a lot,
Just direct my path to the place where Thou art.
Just as I am, I come to Thee,
I accept that I have sinned,
Please cleanse and set me free,
So that to the ground, I’ll not be pinned.
I never wanna leave Your presence,
Keep me in your light,
Free me from ill conscience,
Guide me to follow Your path.
Just as the followers of a shepherd are the sheep,
So are the followers of Jesus Christ Christians.
If I call myself a Christian indeed,
Let Jesus Christ be the only One I need.
Arise o my soul,
Be strong and march forward.
Or else life would be a woe,
So always remember the direction to move, ‘forward’.
What kind of God is this?
That what ‘ere that I do is filthy in His eyes?
Being destined to destruction like a fish,
All I need is Your mercy to make me cold new as Ice.
Upon all my crimes You still came to die for me,
And has made me as valuable as Yourself,
You’ve made me know that You even love me more than I do love myself,
I now pray that to Your sanctuary, You bring me.
Because He lives, I can face tomorrow,
Jesus being my provider,
I need not to be in sorrow,
He’ll take care of me forever.
Born in white, I am asked to journey in mud,
How am I supposed to walk in mud without soiling myself?
I saw a Man, who said He’ll make me even better than just a lad,
He said “all you’ve got to do is to repent and ask for it yourself”.
There’s power in His voice!
He commandeth the storm to be quiet,
It is not with mere noise,
But with grace from where He abideth.
Ben Sana Mecburum: “You are indispensable”
by Attila Ilhan
translation by Nurgul Yayman and Michael R. Burch
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that you’re like nails riveting my brain?
I see your eyes as ever-expanding dimensions.
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that I burn within, at the thought of you?
Trees prepare themselves for autumn;
can this city be our lost Istanbul?
Now clouds disintegrate in the darkness
as the street lights flicker
and the streets reek with rain.
You are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Love sometimes seems akin to terror:
a man tires suddenly at nightfall,
of living enslaved to the razor at his neck.
Sometimes he wrings his hands,
expunging other lives from his existence.
Sometimes whichever door he knocks
echoes back only heartache.
A screechy phonograph is playing in Fatih ...
a song about some Friday long ago.
I stop to listen from a vacant corner,
longing to bring you an untouched sky,
but time disintegrates in my hands.
Whatever I do, wherever I go,
you are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Are you the blue child of June?
Ah, no one knows you—no one knows!
Your deserted eyes are like distant freighters ...
perhaps you are boarding in Yesilköy?
Are you drenched there, shivering with the rain
that leaves you blind, beset, broken,
with wind-disheveled hair?
Whenever I think of life
seated at the wolves’ table,
shameless, yet without soiling our hands ...
Yes, whenever I think of life,
I begin with your name, defying the silence,
and your secret tides surge within me
making this voyage inevitable.
You are indispensable; how can you not know?
Attila Ilhan (1925-2005) was a Turkish poet, translator, novelist, screenwriter, editor, journalist, essayist and reviewer. Keywords/Tags: Turkey, Turkish, Translation, City, International, Leaving, Depression, Absent, Absence, Parting, Separation, Distance, Loss, Break Up, Soulmate, Soulmates, Love, Lovers, Companionship, Passion, Desire, Longing
I am wearing heavy feathers
with the gaze of the day lit to my backside.
A rotisserie routine,
hot with punishment and prayer.
Prayer for punishment,
punishment for prayer.
Answers from a sky beaded in blue birds,
upon gods’ supposed pretty blue fabric.
Crowned crows and drowned geese
barking their bird songs—
like god’s dog, a dog’s god.
Feedback fed back to my waterproof back.
Backed by waterproofed ears.
No water, no proof.
Not even of the air.
Myself, essential as an appendix,
wise as a wisdom tooth.
A modern sticky taste of evolutionary distaste.
An undriven itch paraded down a forked road.
Forked, ed;
I ask silver why,
silver when?
All it knows is where,
the non-knowing of a mouth.
Only a stabbed, spoonfed reflection,
down a downed throat.
Only, gagged.
Only, only, only.
One and only,
twice and only,
third and only.
Words like a broken car,
braking on my tired back.
Treaded wrong,
treaded right in the in-between spot.
Stubborn and beige as the day.
Shining with the sheen of a hydrophobe,
a homophone,
a synonym.
Silver seal skin,
sealed in,
sealed out.
Worn—all worn—over unmatched elbows
dripping dropped drops.
Pointed pens drawing the ink
down from my cupped jaw.
Southern drawn tears
written on a northern face.
Tearing torn words on the papered table,
cornered into torn corners,
soiling the bread on the table.
The bacon,
this belly fat.
Migrations rations.
A seasoning.
Sprinting, flying flavors
chased to the next season.
Only less of a lesson when school’s out,
only school’s never leave school.
Schools make students,
and fish,
and pheasants,
and flies,
and men.
Always an agent,
always a pharaoh.
Concealing the pyramids,
stealing cerulean.
Never claimed,
never claimed to claim.
But claimed clams
and bitten birds,
spun on a spit and spat on;
We all are—
all we are.
Sweaty Palms – Chronic Woe Renders...
Po' Whet Tick Dampened Curse = A
Worse Fate Than Death!
...of Google I now know sweaty
palms sports dignified name
known as palmar hyperhidrosis.
Here all along (meaning major
of my roam'n LIX chronological
hash tagged linkedin orbitz), this
plague constitutes bona fide
medical condition. Cold drippy
comfort! Also (minimally) re:
assuring to realize, this generic
guy need not count himself alone
in sopping wet wilderness re:
this plague. Such problematic
health condition impacts, comprises,
and affects one to two percent of
the world’s population. One
Doctor Riesfeld purportedly makes
hand over fist handsome income.
Will power alone seems a dauntlessly
futile endeavor to rid oneself of
disruptive condition. Try as I might
to put lockdown on propensity
for sweat glands (synonymous
with the term eccrine) packed
within sub surfaces of hands, fore
head and feet. As linkedin to
sympathetic nervous system,
the body electric under stress
activates glands. Profuse moisture
dripping like a faulty faucet
severely affected everyday
activities of existence since a
young adult. Frustration to
complete a simple task such
as opening a doorknob, using
the laptop, and even writing
concomitantly associated with
droplets of water soiling green
sleeves to appear near saturated.
Without fail interpersonal ambitions
hi-jacked when wet as dishrag hands
found me disinclined to experience
social rejection. Though sprung
from overactive predisposition to
anxiety, these secretory organs
get exacerbated with dubiously
honorable privilege of being gifted
with panic attacks, offers little
comfort to sill lake consolation.
Original version:
Phone for the fish knives, Norman
As cook is a little unnerved;
You kiddies have crumpled the serviettes
And I must have things daintily served.
Are the requisites all in the toilet?
The frills round the cutlets can wait
Till the girl has replenished the cruets
And switched on the logs in the grate.
It's ever so close in the lounge dear,
But the vestibule's comfy for tea
And Howard is riding on horseback
So do come and take some with me.
Now here is a fork for your pastries
And do use the couch for your feet;
I know that I wanted to ask you-
Is trifle sufficient for sweet?
Milk and then just as it comes dear?
I'm afraid the preserve's full of stones;
Beg pardon, I'm soiling the doileys
With afternoon tea-cakes and scones.
~
My version:
Do phone for a pizza Norman,
since Olga is having a strop.
Then say that I want it delivered,
you’re not going down to the shop.
We’ll have to get Desmond to call in,
the sauna’s beginning to leak.
My microwave’s out of commission;
the hoover’s beginning to squeak.
I must send a text to Jemima.
We may get an email from Max
and when you’ve stopped surfing on Google,
do put some more bumph in the fax.
Now give me some thoughts for our party,
the one at the end of the week.
It’s got to be terribly ethnic,
all ouzo and feta and Greek.
I want to have proper moussaka,
souvlaki that’s straight from the grill,
oregano and fresh coriander,
all drizzled about with some dill.
Oh Norman! For God’s sake kick Olga,
she’s getting me rather un-nerved.
And tell her to open the pizza,
I do want it daintily served.
~
Taken from 'How to Get On in Society@ by John Betjeman for the Copy Cat Contest.
Flesh is compulsorily subjected to several bites
with the hope of later expensive lotions of comfort.
Hard work pays but luck issues the slips
toiling and moiling for the skin to keep soiling.
Every shot towards goal hits the post,
after years of attempts, the thigh muscles wither.
Sharp teeth on weak Jaws don’t attain chewing,
the discipline of a vegan carnivore is yet not enough.
The babe is painstakingly fed with milk in abundance
but has remained a day old after several months.
A million bricks have been put together and there’s still no house,
my determination is fought back by the agents of malicious doctrines.
Windstorms lay many eggs and pain is fed
The map of destiny shrinks to erase its borders.
Pressure pushes through me like a hydraulic chamber
to create the internal impact for my eyes only.
Almost getting there and success exhibits seizures,
nature collides with humanity in a bid to come to my rescue.
Fortune throws its coins at everyone,
none falls in my lane, prosperity too dizzy to appropriate.
Earthworm bonds with salt, fish now have tattoos,
achievement keeps relocating in an eternal hide and seek.
Exhausted options abandon the mind to a torture chamber
Life is a home of unequal rooms spaced by a garden of puzzles.
Failure is a farce, dying with its tag on, is the threat,
disappointment pops the gum and continuously farts at me.
Just when death, holding the suicide key, is the only awaiting friend,
Time stands up to tick with the sound of my name.
The aisle has been rolled up for the future to walk upon,
fulfillment embraces me now, defeat has permanently lost its appetite.
Rip the sheets of comfort of their privileged bodies
Let the cold hit their skin
To feel the harsh reality of life
Fed with safety and security
No longer will they be coddled by warmth
Whiteness will not save you
Your evil will be put to shame
Your secrets pushed into the spotlight
Pandering will not be allowed
We are tired of you escaping justice
Of the ability to bend the law to your will
Someone has to police you
And I will gladly volunteer as tribute
Power isn't threatening its just cowardly
To pray on the vulnerable
And feast on their need for acceptance
This is a dangerous game that my people will not play
Try not to throw a tantrum when we won't be receptive to your control
We are not falling for your indoctrination tactics
This is for the white supremacists
Who are inspired by Hitler
Who thinks they are right
And so are their views
But your ego will be deflated
With this harsh truth
The only reason you have the power of privilege
Is because of black people
Our contributions are what makes you, you
Because without us to colonise
Who's culture would you choose
To steal, to abuse
To fill the empty void that lives within you
And mask our ancestors labour by spinning it with your 'truth'
The lies you've spread that bled on our graves
Soiling the legacies left by our ancestors
The theft of autonomy of voice
A cowards choice
Taking advantage of the silence once we are dead
To feed the ignorant
Your campaign of hate
But we see through your evil and the tarnishing of our names
But you won't be rid of, not even close, not yet
Our voices you will never forget
You promised me!
You said it last week
“This is the last time.”
You promised me!
But here you are again
Creeping in the dark
Knocking on my door
While daddy sleeps so deeply
And mummy sleeps so sweetly
No one in sight
Just you and I
Here you are again
Asking for a drink
From a well you don’t own
Destroying a pretty little flower
Soiling my innocence
With your dirty perverted hands
Claws and fangs you have
Drinking from my well of innocence
Asking for more
Addicted to your insanity
Giving me candies and cookies
In exchange for the diamond I hold dear to my heart
GET AWAY FROM ME!
STAY AWAY!
“Mummy, help!”
I scream
Hoping someone would wake up
Praying my muffled screams will be heard
As you draw water from my well
I scream into your palms
But no one hears me
As usual
I’m left to bear this shame
All alone
To suffer this pain
All alone
No one to help
No one to save me
I drift into my safe place
The small world inside my head
A place with pretty flowers untouched
Unbruised
Unabused
I dance in my little garden
I laugh in my happy place
Shutting the doors of pain behind me
As you unrepentantly draw more water from my well
Your wickedness tainting my beauty
Your lust polluting my well of innocence
By Sylvia Chika
sylviachika@gmail.com
http://sylviachika.blogspot.com/
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Twitter:@sylviaoz
© 2018 Sylvia Chika
(alternately titled:
Pee pee song and dance routine)
Invariably analogous setting
kickstarts schlemiel to agitate
excretory mechanism linkedin,
viz body electric doth actuate
merely upon turning faucet triggers
unstoppable onset to micturate
drinking coffee or caffeinated tea
also functions as diuretic
mimics similar rush'n spate
oh boy... if I hesitate
to whip out trouser snake late...
he himself will humiliate
courtesy warm liquid will trickle
soiling pea green pants
legs knotted together damns fate
against pistol - unleash
expletives post maturely ejaculate
rank odor will permeate
redeeming salvation drek
written by this primate,
which rather lame poem may titillate,
though juvenile words
when thee evaluate
be mindful, cuz no control exists,
hence humorously accentuate
to tap kidney, draining
the lizard, empty bladder all equate
essentially to see man about a horse
private tête-à-tête,
thus no choice exists to alleviate
non voluntary impulse,
no rhyme nor reason unbeknownst to me
why tinkling sound beckons ureic freight
urgent whistle stop won't depreciate
emergency crisis compounded
with sudden necessity to defecate
courtesy lathered soap
or shaving cream, I fulminate
teary eyed burning man sensation
tripping feet blindly groping
oh $*¡† toilet seat down - cant wait
scramble in vain against impending date,
when disaster strikes
flash flood warning issued,
hence I cannot narrate
anymore hanging unto bough
risking life and limb
half a$$ poem I did create.