Long Vomit Poems
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WHILE PASSING THROUGH:
My heart speaks loudly on the tablets.
Ink leaving traces of my thoughts;
Mind-spills left on paper,
addressing the survivors of humanity.
Desperately I have searched
and found many messages.
I will not come and leave
without passing them on
to the generations forward.
What I do while passing through
gives leverage to the vestige, of our investments.
Though you've cheated death a thousand times
you still must die, one time!
Though we have been used and abused,
we have toiled. and have been allowed to exist
only because of what we do.
If it were not for our abilities we conclude,
we would have perished like a weed
unwanted and sprayed.
The human will have endured.
Even with your best plans and
your most crucial diseases still
you could not separate us from our souls.
Though you've cheated death a thousand times
you still must die one time.
We have baptized your ideas into our reality,
religions and concepts, we have been
foolishly obedient in this servitude.
We've had no problem following your rules,
even though we were not your first mules.
Many souls are wailing. We still triumphed over evil.
The jokes on you, we know how to be good.
We know how to live righteously almost,
and we do, when you let us.
But your own straying gave away the hoax.
I hear souls wailing, voices joining mine,
as we cry in unison. You are the thieves in the den.
Stealing everything we bring in.
Though you've cheated death a thousand times
you still must die one time.
Do not count the dead bodies
on the bus ride, home,
that only causes nightmares.
Wait until morning, if you make it back home,
listen to the news of the body counts;
It's easier that way.
Get a good night's sleep
and your mind set will come back
to its original state.
No matter if we save your life,
raise your children, fight wars side by side,
one day your mindset will return to
you, to feed upon its own ignorance,
like a dog who returns to its vomit.
This too is a promise.
We are under no obligation to any man,
my course on earth, direction,
space, time, no problem.
Though you've cheated death a thousand times,
you still have one final death to die.
WW1 WISCONSIN FOLKS MEANING THE PRISN SYSTEM IS CONTROLLED BY CORRUPTION CROOKED COPS MEXICAN QUEEN PIN DEALERS WW1 MEANING GANGSTER DISCIPLES THE 1 REPRESNT CITY FOLKS THE PITCH FORK YOU CAN VISIT THE WALLS BEHIND BARS STILL COVERED WITH VOMIT BLOOD SHT AND PISS AS CORRUPTION FALSE ARREST FALSE ACCUSE FINALLY GIVE FALSIFIED STATEMENTS IN ORDER TO BRUTALIZE DISABLED PERSONS BEHIND BARS IN WISCONSIN PRISON STSTEM LAME DUCK SOCIETY CORRUPTION COPS ARE SENT OUT TO DELIVER TERRORISTS THREATS RATHER 1810 SHERIDAN ROAD WHERE ARSON MURDERS ARE COVERED GANG LEADERS ARE HIRED TRANSFERRED TO WISCONSIN UNDER THE GARGANO HAYES MILWAUKEE DRUG TRADE CONTROLLING WHO GETS STABBED WHO IS FOUND DEAD IN HOTELS BULLYING INTIMATION BADGERING TAUNTING DOMESTIC TERRORISTS BRUTALITY ACROSS COUNTRY ORGANIZED CRIME RICO VIOLATION GANG RELATED COPS INTIMATION FOR QUEEN PIN VENEZUELA MEXICO SENDING OUT THREATS FROM PRISON BY CORRUPT COPS BEING I WORE WIRES PREGNANT FOR THE FBI BUYING WEAPONS AND DRUGS FROM JUNK SICK COPS AND GANG LEADERS WW1 FOLKS WAUPUN WISCONSIN TORTURE CHAMBERS OFFICER MEXICAN 1980 BURGULARS OBSESSED WITH MY GRANDFATHER SERVING IN ROME ATTEMPTS TO IMPERSONATE ME WITH MEXICAN IMMIGRANT IMPOSTERS JAMAICAN DEALERS SCUM SCUFFING UP MY BEDROOM DOORS BREAKING INTO MY HOME VIOLATING OUR HUMAN CIVIL RIGHTS FOR GANG RELATED COPS HELPING THE GANGSTER DISCIPLES FROM WISCONSIN NO FEAR OF DOMESTIC TERRORISTS ON AMERICAN SOIL YOU DON'T GET TO TERRORIZE ME YOU DON'T GET TO EXTORT MY AMERICAN POETRY CORRUPTION ORGANIZED CRIME DIRTY JUNK SICK COPS AND THEIR VIOLENT OFFENDERS HOUSED IN THE WISCONSIN WOMANS PRISON LOOKING FOR GET OUT OF JAIL FREE CARDA BY FALSIFYING BULLSHT WORKING FOR WISCONSIN GANGS YOU ARE SCUM OF THEE EARTH GOD BLESS AMERICA
Descending into madness, drop by drop,
The senses dulled till mindless, naught perceived.
A subtle slide that ne’er rests ‘gainst a stop,
Till bottoming, the soul is much aggrieved.
No purchase then, when fingers claw the wall,
Attempting to escape the self-induced,
And were to gain a step, would surely fall,
Returning to his vomit, still seduced.
Contrite, one might assume a posture prone,
Not rage, with shaking fist against the sky.
To plead, to beg, be at a mercy thrown,
Resigned at last, not proud, with head held high.
The more remarkable, on face of it:
A hand lent down, redeeming from the pit.
----------
for the A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE Poetry Contest
sponsored by Brian Strand
written on 06/15/2022
Sterile ceramic gallery
White room
Every surface seen
White
A lady wearing a suit of grey angles
Stands behind a desk
Of polished glass
A rubber smile stretches her money moulded face
As people walk through the gallery door
It snaps back into arrogant indifference as they pass
Red lips
A door to teeth contrived
Pretentious
Petulant
Visually pretty
A prophecy
Nausea coaxing words mechanically repeated
Explaining pictures on gallery walls
Grey critics nod their approval
Their herd moves
Feedback buzzing
Hidden speakers prepare another plastic synopsis of art
In a corner of the gallery
Shadowed
Hangs one blank canvas
The critical masses gather
The speakers have nothing more to vomit
Machines sputter confused
Yet there it hangs
Blank
The crowd was forced to think
Then there was blood
Minds no longer realise reaction’s consequence
So long with orders
Subconscious flashing screen’s slaves
Blood
The woman’s red lips can no longer be seen
Walls no longer white
Pristine glass desk dripping red
Perfect raindrops of vein release
From the gallery door
One white
Blank
Canvas
Come the morning, we will shed
The tears of infants, painted red.
Mother's love can save the child
But not the mother from her death.
Soon the child will grow up hated,
then the voices soon abated,
when he finds wickedness in pleasure
And in blood, he finds a laugh
He is lost, they say, abandoned
Bastard child who fathers misfortune
He is crooked in his stature
Out of his jaw leaps a lie
Yet he carries out the sentence
Righteous man endures the torture
Of this world without a Father
Where the love of God shall die
Fear the son, lest he be joyous
In your twisted castrato chorus
Separating joy from voices
So that you can only cry
You will burn and starve and vomit
And your terror will be voiceless
Unless you embrace the hatred
And become as loved as I
For context, I'm almost 22.
I got sick at 18.
It's not like cancer or M.S., I'm not going to die.
But there's no explanation for the reason why I got sick.
Nobody knows, not me, not my doctor, not the specialists.
Mum thinks it's because I left home too young.
Dad thinks I have too much anxiety and I'm sick because of it.
My fianceé thinks maybe I'm reacting to my birth control or to natural hormones.
I think I woke up one day and I was sick.
It went just like that. Waking up one day with my stomach turning inside out.
Shoulders heaving for hours every morning,
Curled up on the floor of the bathroom, protesting the muscle convulsions.
I woke up this way every morning for over a year and no specialist could tell me why.
All I know is I'm sick.
My fianceé didn't sign up to be a caregiver,
Yet somehow he's thrown into the part.
Today, if I travel, I wake up sick. If I stay at a friend's house, I wake up sick. Often, when everything is normal, I still get sick.
I wake up at either midnight, 02:00am, or 05:00am and there is no hope of sleep until at least noon.
There is overwhelming nausea, dizziness, muscles contracting violently and burning.
There are my teeth which seem to be wearing away from my stomach acid.
There is the feeling that if this has to be my life now, i don't want to live it.
It's been 3 years since I had a single day without pain.
I pop ribs out of place as I vomit, so even after the nausea subsides I'm left sore and often bedridden.
My fianceé tries to ask how he can help,
And I'm sent into an emotional spiral.
"You can't help. I can't help me, my doctors can't - i don't want to do this tomorrow morning. I don't wanna wake up tomorrow if it'll be another day of this. I wanna give up."
Today, I want to give up. I want the burning muscles to stop. I want to be able to eat something other than applesauce mixed with water and not throw it up.
This doesn't feel like a life anymore.
I just wanna get better already.
I pray to whatever God listens that I get better.
I cannot do this forever.
My husband parked our car beside
A ginkgo in the city.
The street was littered with its leaves,
So yellow and so pretty.
The female ginkgo also sheds
Some nuts with such a smell,
Just step on one and suddenly,
You won’t feel very well.
That night there was both wind and rain
And pods came pelting down.
Our silver Subaru now wore
A coat of yellow-brown.
It looked like Nature chose our car
And gleefully did bomb it;
To top it off, it reeked and smelled
Remarkably like vomit.
The lesson to be learned is this:
When parking near a ginkgo,
Determine if it’s male or else
Your car will be fa-shtinko!*
*a fake Yiddish word – means what it sounds like!
Sewage Breath
He doesn’t see his family and is barred from all jobs
that have strict high personal hygiene rules.
It was his fault. His shocking sewage breath makes people vomit pools.
That, of course, made him intensely
angry and too sad.
Every day he felt for having sewage breath, for making people sick, extremely bad.
There was nothing he could do.
Brushing his teeth with toothpaste ten times a day
never once got rid of
that worst smell ever that kept every one at bay.
Before vomiting the doctor said, ‘Um, the cause
you were born with it. Because ...
Kidney disease isn’t the cause.
Diabetes or something else isn’t the cause.
There’s no explanation for the cause.’
So as to make amends the police had to
hire Sewage Breath to work in the coast mountain sewers, and ten times he said, ‘Thank You.’
His job was to
breath on the drug dealers so they’d spew.
Thousands of drugs were seized.
Thousands of lives were saved. Yahoo!
Sewage Breath felt calm and happy.
He felt so so so good for first time. Yahoo!
Though the public
and his family were so so so proud of him
they decided that because his
sewage breath was never going to go from him,
it’d be better he live in the sewers,
better for them and him.
The waste from the cattails showed up
heavily against her green velvet dress.
Her mama was gonna be mad,
for she'd taken on extra sewing all last month
just so she could afford to buy it for her.
She had already decided that she wouldn't
even try to brush the fuzz off. Why? ---
When she had done it on purpose. After all
of the time she'd spent begging for it,
and all of the "no's", it had
suddenly lost its value.
Unpretty, as most things are when they're new.
All stiff and oderless... lonely.
Until life gets ahold of it and gives it wrinkles
and it starts to smell---like
alcohol and cigarettes. ... and kittens.
Yes! Yes! She would leave the piliferous vomit
right where it had landed.
So, she walked home,
quite aware of the thrashing which awaited her. Yet, she couldn't help but smile.
For she knew that what the green
velvet dress had lost in value,
she had more than compensated it
with character.
Should I go or should I stay
Should I run or should I walk
Should I open my door or should I close my door
Should I bloom or should I close my buds
Should I eat or should I starve
should I live or should I die
Should I laugh or should I cry
should I weep or should I mourn
Winter is still knocking on my door
And Spring is waiting in limbo.
I once dreamt of having a lovely Spring
To roll on the grass and inhale the sweet aroma
swirling in the wind from fresh blooming flowers
And climb on top of the hill and listen to
chirping birds dancing in the trees
While I reminisce the splendor of my youth
But this woeful nightmare kept lingering on.
The Gods are displeased with mankind's reprobate nature
Born evil, corrupt and permeate with anger
Uncultured and lack manners, shameless but full of pride
Stealing and deceiving one other in broad daylight.
Why should they halt this cold Winter to appease man's sinful nature?
To spread out their nasty bodies under his fresh Spring buds
Romancing on our beautiful beaches
And spewing vomit from last night's hangover.
The Gods are furious at mankind diabolic behavior
A disposition that has captivities the culture and has
provoked and haunt his friends and neighbors
We have been Kidnapped by strangers and surrounded by hostility
Extortioners threatening to call the officer if we don't deliver
Everyone wants something but don't want to do anything.
I must expel this negative energy from around me
and replace it with refreshing and productive energy
This toxic energy spreading like cancer
and causing suffering, pain and agony.
I must find a place that is balanced with love and harmony.
Big trucks wandering up and down the street but going nowhere
The mail van moving around but dropping off no mail
Food trucks traveling around in circle but delivering no food
Just cold air battering the trees and drying up the Blossom.
I must escape his prolonged and dreadful Winter
That has failed to warm my humble heart
A Winter that has stirred up so much anger
And have the people flattered and scattered
Mocked and scorned by their neighbors
While Spring is still waiting in limbo.