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Plump
He shakes his damn rattle
Spittle on his bib
But I dont do the dishes, I throw them in the crib
Im eating you, Im overfed
Your milks in my mouth
It makes me sick
Now Ive stumbled here
Failed to make it mine
They say Im plump, but I throw up all the time
Im eating you, Im overfed
Your milks in my mouth
It makes me sick
Do you fake it for me like i
Do you fake it for me like i
Do you fake it for me like i
My babys in her arms, crawling up her legs
Like a liar at a witch trial
You look good for your age
Im eating you, Im overfed
You milks in my mouth, it makes me sick
song performed by by Hole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I know that I've overfed myself trying to prop myself up because I'm exhausted.
quote by Geri Halliwell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A man who lives alone is either always overworked, or always overfed.
It Is A Daily Routine
waking up
washing a face
and putting on our names
we walk straight
we see other people's eyes
we want to be
just ourselves
in the most honest way
we can
yet we are blocked
by this routine
and she tells you
do you want to tell the truth
and suffer the consequences?
dare or die,
be insignificant
make a difference
and dissolve
like the rest who like fireflies carried
the fire on their backs
one night
they burned the flowers and spread a fire on the trees
the following day
some worms got overfed and slept and then laughed
the hardest
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sell Out
Five cheat card thief, misled skinhead,
Tell me where its at?
Is it cool to bring it up again?
Will I blow my cat?
Misplaced tinselface, weekend pretend,
Am I on your track?
I would love to live close to you,
Could I bring my cat?
Cowgirl, sailor,
Do you know who you are?
Cowgirl, sailor,
Do you know who you are?
Do you know who you are?
Overfed premed, outfront gaspump,
Will I fix my car?
Pinch yourself when I smile at you,
Baby, Im a star!
Turned on, tuned in, cop out, sell out,
Do you know who you are?
I took the time to try to fit you in,
Was I off too far?
Cowgirl, sailor,
Do you know who you are?
Cowgirl, sailor,
Do you know who you are?
Do you know who you are?
song performed by by Neil Young
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Ecstatic Truth
What bedtime stories
Will you choose for your children
To knock them back
Into the poppies to sleep,
My pretties,
To send them snoozing
From their overfed
Satanic Paradise
Caged in a middle-class house
Sequestered by a manicured
Golf-course
Locked with a gate code
The nitric oxide allaying fears
Into the briefest of
Sugar-coated comas?
Certainly not the vulgar
Hypocrisy of your
Communist youth—
That the man you first loved,
Which was I,
Is not their father,
Nor is the next one
(The stranger you left me for) :
But the third one,
You assure them:
You are rather sure he is their father.
The ecstatic truth
That you can never
Explain to them,
The poetic justice you fear:
That a homeless man,
A breathless copse of shedding limbs
In the croaking gutter,
Maggots vortexing a writhing sea
In his swollen liver,
Has more glow of deity
In him than
Their poor,
Well-kept mother.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Law Of The Bungle
The tiger flashes sharpened teeth.
Bowler-hatted; summer briefs
Beneath his pinstriped skin.
To kill demands a business sense;
Economy moves non-residence
Approaching from down-wind.
Being a tiger means you laugh
Whenever lesser tigers have
To eat meat thats infected.
Being a tiger means your mate
When overfed will defecate
In places least expected.
Knowing a tiger means you must
Accept his promise of mutual trust
And offer him your throat.
Loving a tiger means you take
Second place to the cake you bake
And with undying servile obedience
Keep the stiffly starched collar
Of his conference shirt spotless
And remove daily the daubed bloody
Evidence of his dastardly misdeeds
From the otherwise immaculate elegance
Of his pinstripe tiger coat.
Period.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Minstrel In The Gallery
The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the
Smiling faces.
He met the gazes --- observed the spaces between the
Old mens cackle.
He brewed a song of love and hatred --- oblique
Suggestions --- and he waited.
He polarized the pumpkin-eaters --- static-humming
Panel-beaters --- freshly day-glowd factory cheaters
(salaried and collar-scrubbing).
He titillated men-of-action --- belly warming, hands
Still rubbing on the parts they never mention.
He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating
One-line jokers --- t.v. documentary makers
(overfed and undertakers).
Sunday paper backgammon players --- family-scarred
And women-haters.
Then he called the band down to the stage and he
Looked at all the friends hed made.
The minstrel in the gallery looked down on the
Rabbit-run.
And threw away his looking-glass - saw his face in
Everyone.
song performed by by Jethro Tull
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Aunt marjorie's wig
Aunt Marjorie's wig went a missin
While cooking a stew and reminiscing
She recalled her first kiss
as a bit hit and miss
With a fidgety midget from gissing
As she filled her meat pie
She started to cry
Cos the onion was burning a lot
It tasted quite bitter she thought with a titter
As she laughed in plopped her locks
Feeingl much lighter
she skipped and she hopped
Unware of her missing hairpiece
Though her head was much smaller
She could not recall when her wig found it's silent release
Short sighted from birth she stood by the hearth
And drank til she barely could stand
And without looking
she devoured her cooking
Bit by bit she gorged on each strand
Not knowng what she was doing
She just kept on chewing and chewing
Forcing the last dreg of the wig with her hand
She lay on her bed feeling quite overfed
With light shiny spot on her head
She turned over and over with a pain in just below her
Not sure of how long it would last
So she went to the loo
And after a BIG NUMBER 2
She saw a large hairy hat floating past! !
poem by Yvette Smith
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Call It Opportunity!
Let us scavenge in the emerging markets of the world,
Where we can find the dollar crazy crooks as the lead,
Send the naturalized traitors to their own shores,
To poke the eyes of the poor mothers with their,
Own children's long nailed hands, we are smart,
Entrepreneurs with self proclaimed profit,
In the balanced sheets to play with the hearts,
Of the human, ringing the bells in the stock market,
Keeping our oil safe under the soil for future use,
Gallon of fuel can be sold for gold price,
We are the intelligent businessmen traveling,
In business class, selling everything in shoe string,
Human from all over the world grouped together,
In the land of worshipers of sun and the celestial objects,
Invented the policies to make the human nerds and nuts,
Overfed, obese, neglected, tired and confused with doubts.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Hangover
Written by dewey bunnell, 1980
Found on alibi.
Whos that knockin on my door this mornin
Cant they see Im dead
There aint nothin left to do this mornin
cept to make it to my bed
I was out till all hours
Raisin cain once again
I dont care about the hours
Only how much did I spend
cause I got a hangover
I wont make it through the day
I got a hangover
So just leave me where I lay
I started slow after sundown
I tiptoed right up till ten
Then after while I went downtown
It was the beginning of my end
Now I got a hangover
I wont make it through the day
I got a hangover
So just leave me where I lay
Oh, how am I gonna stake my claim on the future
When I cannot lift my head
Oh, I aint nothin but a drunken loser
And my livers overfed
cause I got a hangover
I wont make it through the day
cause I got a hangover
So just leave me where I lay
Now I got a hangover
I wont make it through the day
cause I got a hangover
So just leave me where I lay
So just leave me where I lay
song performed by by America
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love Somebody
I can see the path youre cutting
It cost me a little piece of my heart
I can see the doors youre shutting
cause they were open at the start
Baby loving you has been hard on me
Youre such a tough little sister
Just looking for mr. right
On the wrong side of town
You better love somebody
Its late
You better love somebody
Dont wait
You better love somebody
Dont tempt fate
Youre gonna pull you just a little too far
One night
Your eyes are wild, your skin so white
Youre undernourished and overfed
Shes got the teeth, she knows how to bite
cause when you bit I bled
You got the perfect image
Of the perfect man
Youre a tough little sister
But youll settle for a mister tonight
But youre running out of time
You better love somebody
Its late
You better love somebody
Dont wait
You better love somebody
Dont tempt fate
Youre gonna pull you just a little too far
One night
Im only saying what I feel
You think Im wrong I know
You thought I was sleeping at the wheel
I thought that you were driving
You better love somebody
You better love somebody
You better love somebody
Its late
You better love somebody
Dont wait
You better love somebody
Dont tempt fate
Theyre gonna pull you just a little too far
One night
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cancer of the Earth
You have to be a sad somebody...
To wake up each day and have absolutely nothing,
Nothing at all...
To be grateful for and express that gratefulness! .
Nothing at all? ? ?
To express your thankfulness?
That's absurd!
And you are actually expressing this...
With a wish to have this heard?
Then there is no wonder,
Why people like you...
Are more pitiful than any scene revealed,
To make others feel...
Those living homeless,
And in starvation states of body and mind...
As seen and produced on TV screens,
Can induce sympathy to boost 'your' treasures...
By showing those devastated in third world countries.
While you sit and dream,
To add to a stockpile...
Of things you neither use.
Or seem to really need!
And I view them...
The ones used to demean,
As First World People of Massive Negligence,
To have to have suffered and endured...
The acts of selfishness and greed!
That YOU can find to whine about,
That there is not 'more' you can digest!
As you feast an overfed gluttony schemed.
You are entwined in a 'spiritual digression'.
Oh...
My God,
Yes!
'These fools are congested!
And constipated at best! '
And your mind is the cancer of the Earth!
Perhaps that is why you view your way of life...
Upheld by standards you value,
As coming to an end!
And I hope to God that is true!
This process began by a manipulating few!
Perhaps that is why...
An undoing of this mess,
Is affecting what you are accustomed to!
You are overdo for a universal spanking...
Coming to 'your' home and one near you!
There is a need to have you cured,
To purify the air...
Of these polluted thoughts,
You have been taught to thoughtlessly breathe!
You need an overhaul.
One completely renewed and fresh,
Indeed.
With a decrease of your selfishness.
Done to be left behind and put to rest!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Ballad Of The Lonely Masturbator
The end of the affair is always death.
She's my workshop. Slippery eye,
out of the tribe of myself my breath
finds you gone. I horrify
those who stand by. I am fed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Finger to finger, now she's mine.
She's not too far. She's my encounter.
I beat her like a bell. I recline
in the bower where you used to mount her.
You borrowed me on the flowered spread.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Take for instance this night, my love,
that every single couple puts together
with a joint overturning, beneath, above,
the abundant two on sponge and feather,
kneeling and pushing, head to head.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
I break out of my body this way,
an annoying miracle. Could I
put the dream market on display?
I am spread out. I crucify.
My little plum is what you said.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
Then my black-eyed rival came.
The lady of water, rising on the beach,
a piano at her fingertips, shame
on her lips and a flute's speech.
And I was the knock-kneed broom instead.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
She took you the way a women takes
a bargain dress off the rack
and I broke the way a stone breaks.
I give back your books and fishing tack.
Today's paper says that you are wed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
The boys and girls are one tonight.
They unbutton blouses. They unzip flies.
They take off shoes. They turn off the light.
The glimmering creatures are full of lies.
They are eating each other. They are overfed.
At night, alone, I marry the bed.
poem by Anne Sexton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A blossom
As it Blooms in silence
I was truly allured
a flower's humble beauty
her future ensured
exceptional glamor I spotted
in this lovely garden of her.
Rain fall softly on her petals
it fell down slowly light as feather
the shimmering and sparkling
of the thick and dripping humid;
condensing in every bud
in this lovely garden of her.
The blurry vision of early dawn fog,
the charming rays of peeking sun,
those silencing sounds of earth
makes most sense of elegance
in this lovely garden of her.
The wind blowing in rhythm
setting free the dancing pecks
the melody of the ambiance,
the sweet smell of honey-nectar,
the aroma of her sincerity
that brings all my joy,
draws every smile in my face
each day of my life
in this lovely garden of her.
Yet there came a time the wind blew hard
Drought came fast and wither starts
little by little her throat seized
grasping her breath she naught fought.
The skies turned black and lights blinks fast
then her crave they overfed to death
overhead came the water dark
'None could ever survive'
They proven wrong...
For the dusk end and the night came
The moon came yet not to help
the tide higher he hath even made..
Alas! Dawn breaks& moon withdraws
The sun came and peek again
in this lovely garden of her...
There the earth witness her wilt
yet new life brought by rain and shine..
a humble blossom in joy and gloom
a story in cycle in this lovely garden of her...
poem by Ellirie Aviles
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Passion of a Man
His fingers are strong and determined
And when he loves you
He chases, and follows you wherever you go
Like a river flowing like a brown river flooding
Scurrying its way to the mouth
Of the sea
Taking the least of resistance
But if obstructed
Like the river
There will be an overflowing
A strong raging of the waters
Of his fury
Taking everything
Houses trees fowls
Children, men, and women
And boulders
And lands
Those that block his way
His arms embrace you
And he suffocates you with the pungent odor
Of his masculine love
He breathes deeply saving all his strength
He holds you tight
His chiseled muscled body pressed
Against yours
He bends he stands he kneels he bends
Again he bows to you
Touches you from the
Tip of your toe
To the tip of you
Hair and he surveys
Every inch of
Your flesh-territories
Obeys your wishes
Takes your command
And your desires
In full obeisance
Like a slave
He breathes deeply taking the strengths
Of a hundred bulls
He breathes in the force of the forests
And the trees
And taking all the grace in you
He thrusts at you like a storm
A strong wind
You are at the center of his power
You are loved you are not destroyed
You are one beautiful weakness giving in
To this force his strength his thrusts
And when this coiling
These bombardments
These lovely conquests
Are over
As he eats whatever
He needs to make
His fill
Of your love
Famished as he is
To his longings
Of you
Like an overfed boa
He lies next to you
His eyes gentle
His hands so tender
Resting on your breast
Caressing your thighs like a soft wind
A soft breeze from the green trees of the valleys
His lips to your nipples
You are warm and wet
In so sweet still warm embrace
It is over
He is exhausted
And you are
Satiated.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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32
His fingers are strong and determined
And when he loves you
He chases, and follows you wherever you go
Like a river flowing like a brown river flooding
Scurrying its way to the mouth
Of the sea
Taking the least of resistance
But if obstructed
Like the river
There will be an overflowing
A strong raging of the waters
Of his fury
Taking everything
Houses trees fowls
Children, men, and women
And boulders
And lands
Those that block his way
His arms embrace you
And he suffocates you with the pungent odor
Of his masculine love
He breathes deeply saving all his strength
He holds you tight
His chiseled muscled body pressed
Against yours
He bends he stands he kneels he bends
Again he bows to you
Touches you from the
Tip of your toe
To the tip of you
Hair and he surveys
Every inch of
Your flesh-territories
Obeys your wishes
Takes your command
And your desires
In full obeisance
Like a slave
He breathes deeply taking the strengths
Of a hundred bulls
He breathes in the force of the forests
And the trees
And taking all the grace in you
He thrusts at you like a storm
A strong wind
You are at the center of his power
You are loved you are not destroyed
You are one beautiful weakness giving in
To this force his strength his thrusts
And when this coiling
These bombardments
These lovely conquests
Are over
As he eats whatever
He needs to make
His fill
Of your love
Famished as he is
To his longings
Of you
Like an overfed boa
He lies next to you
His eyes gentle
His hands so tender
Resting on your breast
Caressing your thighs like a soft wind
A soft breeze from the green trees of the valleys
His lips to your nipples
You are warm and wet
In so sweet still warm embrace
It is over
He is exhausted
And you are
Satiated.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Black Unicorn
I set out to see the outside world,
A boy’s adventure tale to be unfurled,
but through my ignorance and naivety,
I am oblivious to a pickpocket’s thievery,
leaving me with an empty purse,
and a penniless plea to rehearse,
with no home I meander alone,
lost in the vastness of the unknown,
a weary and lonely soul travelling on,
until the daylight fades and then is gone,
but the mountains do come to my aid,
offering shade for a body so cold and afraid,
breathing through gritted and bared teeth,
I push myself towards the alcoves beneath,
finally I enter the ancient earthen caves,
that once sheltered heroes, slaves, fools and braves,
but the moon, a huge white capitulated eye,
in full bloom against the night’s sky,
shines down on a vision of unheralded beauty,
I sink to my knees in the name of duty,
within this cavern is a horse with a single horn,
A free spirited unbound prancing unicorn,
A symbolic virtuous mythological beast,
my sight overfed by this delineatious feast,
yet behind the monoceros stands a black clad woman,
armed with witchcraft; wonders she can summon,
so with a daintily dance she casts a spell upon me,
starglitter creates warm sparkles around my body,
which then picks me up from my knees,
its passion and heat melting the cold freeze,
waving goodbye to my troubles and despair,
making me feel like I’m a millionaire,
this woman adorned with a sloping and pointed hat,
links my arm founding a new trio and sabat,
fresh friendship and love is found and born,
bound together in the light of the dawn,
so now I thank you for making my little fantasy,
of you, the unicorn and me become reality…
poem by Dale Mullock
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Baals Hymn
Whilst his mothers womb contained the growing baal
Even then the sky was waiting quiet and pale
Naked, young, immensely marvellous
Like baal loved it, when he came to us
That same sky remained with him in joy and care
Even when baal slept peaceful and unaware
At night a lilac sky, a drunken baal
Turning pious as the sky grows pale
So through hospital, cathedral, whiskey bar
Baal kept moving onwards and just let things go
When baals tired, boys, baal cannot fall far
He will have his sky down there below
When the sinners congregate in shame together
Baal lay naked, revelling in their distress
Only sky, a sky that will go on forever
Formed a blanket for his nakedness
And that lusty girl, the world, wholl laughing yield
To the men wholl stand the pressure of her thighs
Sometimes gave him love-bites, such as cant be healed
Baal survived it, he just used his eyes
And when baal saw lots of corpses scattered round
He felt twice the thrill, despite the lack of room
Space enough said baal, then Ill thicken the ground
Space enough within this womans womb
Any vice for baal has got its useful side
Its the man who practices it, he cant abide
Vices have their point, once you see it as such
Stick to two for one will be too much
Slackness, softness are the sort of things to shun
Nothing could be harder than the quest for fun
Lots of strength is needed and experience too
Swollen bellies can embarrass you
Under gloomy stars and this poor veil of tears
Baal will graze a pasture till it disappears
Once its been digested to the forests teeth
Baal trod singing for a well earned sleep
Baal can spot the vultures in the stormy sky
As they wait up there to see if baal will die
Sometimes baal pretends hes dead, but vultures swoop
Baal in silence dines on vulture-soup
When the dark womb drags him down to its prize
Whats the world still mean to baal, hes overfed
So much sky is lurking still behind his eyes
Hell just have enough sky when hes dead
Once the earths dark womb engulfed the rotting baal
Even then the sky was up there, quiet and pale
Naked, young, immensely marvellous
Like baal loved it when he lived with us
song performed by by David Bowie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Hyde Park Larrikin
You may have heard of Proclus, sir,
If you have been a reader;
And you may know a bit of her
Who helped the Lycian leader.
I have my doubts -- the head you "sport"
(Now mark me, don't get crusty)
Is hardly of the classic sort --
Your lore, I think, is fusty.
Most likely you have stuck to tracts
Flushed through with flaming curses --
I judge you, neighbour, by your acts --
So don't you damn my verses.
But to my theme. The Asian sage,
Whose name above I mention,
Lived in the pitchy Pagan age,
A life without pretension.
He may have worshipped gods like Zeus,
And termed old Dis a master;
But then he had a strong excuse --
He never heard a pastor.
However, it occurs to me
That, had he cut Demeter
And followed you, or followed me,
He wouldn't have been sweeter.
No doubt with "shepherds" of this time
He's not the "clean potato",
Because -- excuse me for my rhyme --
He pinned his faith to Plato.
But these are facts you can't deny,
My pastor, smudged and sooty,
His mind was like a summer sky --
He lived a life of beauty --
To lift his brothers' thoughts above
This earth he used to labour:
His heart was luminous with love --
He didn't wound his neighbour.
To him all men were just the same --
He never foamed at altars,
Although he lived ere Moody came --
Ere Sankey dealt in psalters.
The Lycian sage, my "reverend" sir,
Had not your chances ample;
But, after all, I must prefer
His perfect, pure example.
You, having read the Holy Writ --
The Book the angels foster --
Say have you helped us on a bit,
You overfed impostor?
What have you done to edify,
You clammy chapel tinker?
What act like his of days gone by --
The grand old Asian thinker?
Is there no deed of yours at all
With beauty shining through it?
Ah, no! your heart reveals its gall
On every side I view it.
A blatant bigot with a big
Fat heavy fetid carcass,
You well become your greasy "rig" --
You're not a second Arcas.
What sort of "gospel" do you preach?
What "Bible" is your Bible?
There's worse than wormwood in your speech,
You livid, living libel!
How many lives are growing gray
Through your depraved behaviour!
I tell you plainly -- every day
You crucify the Saviour!
Some evil spirit curses you --
Your actions never vary:
You cannot point your finger to
One fact to the contrary.
You seem to have a wicked joy
In your malicious labour,
Endeavouring daily to destroy
The neighbour's love for neighbour.
The brutal curses you eject
Make strong men dread to hear you.
The world outside your petty sect
Feels sick when it is near you.
No man who shuns that little hole
You call your tabernacle
Can have, you shriek, a ransomed soul --
He wears the devil's shackle.
And, hence the "Papist" by your clan
Is dogged with words inhuman,
Because he loves that friend of man
The highest type of woman --
Because he has that faith which sees
Before the high Creator
A Virgin pleading on her knees --
A shining Mediator!
God help the souls who grope in night --
Who in your ways have trusted!
I've said enough! the more I write,
The more I feel disgusted.
The warm, soft air is tainted through
With your pernicious leaven.
I would not live ~one hour~ with you
In your peculiar heaven!
Now mount your musty pulpit -- thump,
And muddle flat clodhoppers;
And let some long-eared booby "hump"
The plate about for coppers.
At priest and parson spit and bark,
And shake your "church" with curses,
You bitter blackguard of the dark --
With this I close my verses.
poem by Henry Kendall
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