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As a dog returns to his vomit, so a fool returns to his folly.
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.
When The Poem Returns Life Returns
WHEN THE POEM RETURNS LIFE RETURNS
When the poem returns life returns
There is enthusiasm and exuberance again
There is something to live for
And dreams are dreams
And hopes give hope-
When the poem returns life returns
And I begin again here
As if there is some sense after all
In writing and living again.
poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Kelle
Wantonness,
To wallow again in the mine;
And like a dog that returns to its own vomit.
Wallow, callow, fallow, hallow, mallow, sallow, tallow;
I am Kelle in the land of your muse,
But do remember to keep the black pot always clean.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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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
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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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Rap
early morn
the poet rises.
Words at night
that had no rap
reveal at dawn
surprises.
Melody returns.
Dimmed by days advance,
song returns to morning,
words begin to dance.
poem by Douglas Scotney
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Unstable
A world war is in progress and,
The end of the world is at hand;
But like the ox that eats grass,
Let your life show others the way.
To be known and to be repected,
To learn and to share with others;
I will come to you like a thief in the night,
So be ready to receive your reward as well.
Love to the brotherhood,
Love to the sisterhood,
Love to the fatherhood,
Love to the motherhood,
And by the way of remembrance;
But those who are unclean and unstable will twist the law.
This is my first letter to you and you have to learn,
This is my first love to you and you have to care,
For a dog always returns to its own vomit.
This is my second letter to you,
Like a washed snow in the field of love;
But the unstable will always twist the law.
This is my third letter to you,
For faith always goes with works;
And you have to do your best on this love.
Of the things which we have heard,
Of the things which we have to share,
Of the things which we have to read,
Of the things which we have to laern,
Of the things which we have to say,
Of the things which we have to write,
Of the things we have built,
And of the things we have seen;
Do not allow that which is evil to be your friend.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Ballade Of Autumn
We built a castle in the air,
In summer weather, you and I,
The wind and sun were in your hair, -
Gold hair against a sapphire sky:
When Autumn came, with leaves that fly
Before the storm, across the plain,
You fled from me, with scarce a sigh -
My Love returns no more again!
The windy lights of Autumn flare:
I watch the moonlit sails go by;
I marvel how men toil and fare,
The weary business that they ply!
Their voyaging is vanity,
And fairy gold is all their gain,
And all the winds of winter cry,
'My Love returns no more again!'
Here, in my castle of Despair,
I sit alone with memory;
The wind-fed wolf has left his lair,
To keep the outcast company.
The brooding owl he hoots hard by,
The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane,
The Rhymer's soothest prophecy,--
My Love returns no more again!
ENVOY.
Lady, my home until I die
Is here, where youth and hope were slain:
They flit, the ghosts of our July,
My Love returns no more again!
poem by Andrew Lang
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tell Me That Love Returns
Tell me that love returns
to break the silent waves of pain;
those large imperious waves of pain
in the vast ocean of sorrow.
Tell me that love returns
to catch the falling stars;
those bright imperious sparks of stars
withing the vast sky of sorrow.
Tell me that love returns
to mend this broken heart;
this shattered, broken, wounded heart
in the vast soul of sorrow.
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
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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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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.
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.
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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