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thank you Russell Edson... great poem
The house grows sick in its dining room and begins to vomit.
Father cries, the dining room is vomiting.
No wonder, the way you eat, it's enough to make anybody sick,
says his wife.
What shall we do? What shall we do? he cries.
Call the Vomit Doctor of course.
Yes, but all he does is vomit, sighs father.
If you were a vomit doctor you'd vomit too.
But isn't there enough vomit? sighs father.
There is never enough vomit.
Do I make everybody that sick, sighs father.
No no, everybody is born sick.
Born sick? cries father.
Of course, haven't you noticed how everybody eventually
dies? she says.
Is the dining room dying...?
... The way you eat, it's enough to make anyone sick,
she screams.
So I do make everybody that sick...
Excuse me, I think I'm going to be sick, she says.
Oh where is the Vomit Doctor? At least when he vomits one
knows one has it from high authority, screamed father.
Natural Instincts...
urination is always a delight
an act of emptying and this time
when it is over
one feels the happiness of that
emptiness that i have been
telling you
not just the defecation even
but the vomiting of something
poisonous
this is our natural body
it excretes what kills it
what discomfort that has caused
its inconvenient moment
it excludes
segregates expels and
does not want to recall
trust your instincts
when you feel like vomiting it
by all means
vomit, vomit.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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He’s past it
Werner is not unconscious
from drugs and liquor,
he’s past it
and a white ambulance
arrives with a flashing
red light.
He lies on the ground
in his own vomit
and urine
that lays yellow, orange and white
around him
and empty dark brown beer bottles
and a bottle of Johnny Walker
is broken
and the glass
stabs into his arm
and the man
on the label
walks past him
and blowflies
are everywhere on him
and a pot pipe
clings with vomit
to his mouth.
There’s an injection
with the needle
still in his vain
and his eyes are big and grey
and empty without life
while his right hand
clutches a guitar
as if he’s thinking
about the next chord
and there’s tiredness
and emptiness on his face.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Landscape of a Vomiting Multitude
The fat lady came out first,
tearing out roots and moistening drumskins.
The fat lady
who turns dying octopuses inside out.
The fat lady, the moon's antagonist,
was running through the streets and deserted buildings
and leaving tiny skulls of pigeons in the corners
and stirring up the furies of the last centuries' feasts
and summoning the demon of bread through the sky's clean-swept hills
and filtering a longing for light into subterranean tunnels.
The graveyards, yes the graveyards
and the sorrow of the kitchens buried in sand,
the dead, pheasants and apples of another era,
pushing it into our throat.
There were murmuring from the jungle of vomit
with the empty women, with hot wax children,
with fermented trees and tireless waiters
who serve platters of salt beneath harps of saliva.
There's no other way, my son, vomit! There's no other way.
It's not the vomit of hussars on the breasts of their whores,
nor the vomit of cats that inadvertently swallowed frogs,
but the dead who scratch with clay hands
on flint gates where clouds and desserts decay.
The fat lady came first
with the crowds from the ships, taverns, and parks.
Vomit was delicately shaking its drums
among a few little girls of blood
who were begging the moon for protection.
Who could imagine my sadness?
The look on my face was mine, but now isn't me,
the naked look on my face, trembling for alcohol
and launching incredible ships
through the anemones of the piers.
I protect myself with this look
that flows from waves where no dawn would go,
I, poet without arms, lost
in the vomiting multitude,
with no effusive horse to shear
the thick moss from my temples.
The fat lady went first
and the crowds kept looking for pharmacies
where the bitter tropics could be found.
Only when a flag went up and the first dogs arrived
did the entire city rush to the railings of the boardwalk.
poem by Federico García Lorca
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The dog and egg
Dog
Try too
Eat...
At home...
Try too
Eat...
Egg...
Egg is
Not good...! ! !
Dog try too eat...? ? ?
With vomit...!
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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To write a diary every day is like returning to one's own vomit.
quote by Enoch Powell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There we times when everybody in the house has the flu. You're cleaning up vomit and it's 2 in the morning, and you're wishing there was somebody else there to help you.
It was dog food. Beef livers with onions in a can. You open it up and it looks like vomit.
quote by Tom Sizemore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The dog has returned to his vomit again, and the sow that was washed to her wallowing in the mire.
The Spiritual Glow
It’s life’s fault that I’m lying here in such a mess
sodden with vomit, wine, beer, and meth’s.
“Hey, I’m sorry, but I can’t remember insulting your wife;
there’s no need to hit a man who’s down in his life.
Stop! Please don’t thump and kick me any more,
my head and face is bleeding, and my ribs are sore.
You’ve broken my nose and my eyes are swollen shut,
and I vomit every time you kick my gut.
I know being drunk is no excuse for being rude
but it’s the booze to blame for my bad attitude.
I agree, that I’m a useless loser and waste of time,
and I spend all my money on beer, meth’s, and wine.
Listen mister, I don’t expect any sympathy from anyone
just because my days are all but done.
The tablets are no use and the only painkiller that I know
is from the mixture I call the ‘Spiritual Glow’.
So if you you’re going to hit and kick me again,
kick me hard around my head and brain.
Then at least you’ll do me a favour by setting me free
and you’ll go to prison for the death of me.”
poem by Orlando Belo
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Every time I listened to Lux Radio Theatre, I wanted to vomit.
I'm so sick of Nancy Drew I could vomit.
quote by Mildred Augustus Wirt Benson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One of the best temporary cures for pride and affectation is seasickness; a man who wants to vomit never puts on airs.
quote by Josh Billings
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My Hunger And Fullness And You
it is when i am
hungry
and thirsty
that you are too
beautiful
to me
forgive me
but when i am
full
i must vomit
the truth
that you are
ugly and
detestable
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Messages are coloured.
You don’t vomit what you want to convey;
You structure it according to speakers,
With due concern for your image in them.
No message is uncoloured when it’s said.
06.04.2005
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Anger not to constipate
Anger in you is like food in your bowl.
You must emit or go out to vomit
To cleanse the bowel; else you’ll constipate.
30.04.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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All art is a kind of confession, more or less oblique. All artists, if they are to survive, are forced, at last, to tell the whole story, to vomit the anguish up.
quote by James Baldwin
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Paranoid Andriod
please could you stop the noises, i'm trying to get some rest
from all the unborn chicken voices in my head
what's that? (my name is paranoid, i am your android)
what's that? (my name is paranoid, i am your android)
when i am king, you will be first against the wall
with your opinion which is of no consequence at all
what's that? (my name is paranoid, i am your android)
what's that? (my name is paranoid, i am your android)
ambition makes you look pretty ugly
kicking squealing gucci little piggy
you don't remember
you don't remember
why don't you remember my name?
off with his head man
off with his head man
why won't he remember my name? -- i guess he does
rain down
rain down
come on rain down
on me
from a great height
from a great height, height
rain down
rain down
come on rain down
on me
from a great height
from a great height, height
(repeats 3rd time, underneath vocals are:)
that's it sir,
you're leaving,
the crackle of pig skin,
the dust and the screaming,
the yuppies networking,
the panic, the vomit,
the panic, the vomit,
God loves his children,
God loves his children, yeah
song performed by by Radiohead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Degrade Me, Please
this is the fountain of urine
i put it on
bathe in there
this is the dung
of the cow, take some slices
like a piece of cake
this is a cup of molds
and moss and slime and spittle
take them
as you please
sometimes, i vomit and ask, why?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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