Long Unhygienic Poems
Long Unhygienic Poems. Below are the most popular long Unhygienic by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Unhygienic poems by poem length and keyword.
Her hormones fled the coop
on scalding tires.
He drifted into her,
working the night-shift
of a traveling fantasy.
Motel maids were her sisters
bars her occupation,
a place to work
on the aerobics of hope.
Their love
was an unhygienic affair.
Everything spilled out,
much maintenance
in putting back in.
Emotional jism
was scrubbed by hand
until skin-tight excuses
glistened
milky as mollusk flesh.
They had lots to attend to.
Feelings had to be
daily resuscitated
into former victimized forms.
He would not leave;
she would not go.
He anointed her again,
and again
with his pity-me flesh.
Their mutually dependent rodeo
played itself out
on the steps
of a haggard tomorrow,
both now blinded
by owl-light.
He wears a bandana and smells
worse than an unkept dog with a horrible breath;
I heard rumors that he sleeps
in a garage, where dogs are infested with fleas.
He drives a station wagon emitting strong fumes,
does he ever change his engine oil or let it burn 'until the engine
stops running? He shows no blush of shame, but curses more than
a truck driver while he sits still and counts his woes.
The hungry dogs bark and peak out of the car windows,
seeing angry faces and hands waving at close distance...
the defiant driver refuses to come out of the broken-down car,
and with raggae music blasting, he gives them the finger.
Only a bigot could act in such a disrespectful way
as fury increases and every driver blows the horn constantly,
but too much air noise gets pedestrians tense, and one of them
calls police on his cell phone...they come and arrest him.
And he still smells in that cell cramped with criminals and offenders,
he even had the guts to ask one of the officers to bring in his dogs!
Oh, filthy, unhygienic guy they should hand you soap and towel,
instead of keeping you in there and make everybody yell!
The Battlefield of Survival
There is nothing that brings out our fragility
to surface like surgery, dreams one has of
success is laid bare under the well-lit light
of an operating table
First time I had one of those growths removed
was seventy-five years ago by our doctor
wearing a three-piece suit with a blue tie
My memory of him is that of a man who
had a cigarette in one hand and a scalpel
on the other hand, during the proceedings
he spoke to my mother about the weather
That was inclement, and the Labor Party
He and my mother were communists
For a long time, I had to take blood tests
which I didn't mind, his waiting room was
full of magazines and newspapers
There is nothing to read in waiting rooms
anymore, apparently, it is unhygienic
Not that it mattered, one has phones
The surgeon and his assistant spoke
pleasantly to each other about their work
at hand, I just happen to be there
After the operation, I was led into a room
to rest and dress, no, there was no kind
nurse serving tea
When all the sick
Are put to rest
Train station
And plague ships
Are empty
Retributions are fought
And paid
Nature
Again
Forced from towns
Highways and byways
Rumble and hum
To the movement of mode
Again
White trails
Crisscross the sky
Will it really
Be the same
People can’t blame
Their Gods
Just there wicked
And unhygienic ways
Will malnutrition
Poverty and hunger
Mate
To birth war
And hate
Will the little
Privacy that’s left
Be taken
Stolen
Without consent
Will social capitalism
Be the new bent
Social worth
Based on a social score
The one truth
(Am already behind the eight ball)
Will persecution
Again flourish
Targeting
The Blacks
The Jews
The foreigner
Beggars, pilgrims
Disabled
Women
Will Art
Turn black
With pessimism
And a dance of death
A return of Gothic
And Gargoyles
To accelerate
The wrath
Of Gods
Life
Won’t be the same
What was
Is gone
The flux
Of our existence
Replaced with
What’s to come