Noon Break Eroticism
the night shift must have been so
damning
the dying screams, the latest victims
of the night wanting emergency attention
the doctors are at home sleeping
and some nurses are sleeping
on their desks
and there
marvin wakes up from his deep slumber
washes his face
combs his hair
and does his routinary toilet
gets this tissue
and wipes his
skin under
reflected by this dirty-white
bowl
he stands up, pulls his brief
and pants and zips
and then he washes his hands
with soap and water
goes out of the toilet
faces the coming nurses
and takes his
late breakfast
the morning is so boring
and it is noonday
back again
to this eroticism
the shemales with
some blowjobs
the virgins with fears
and his groans
that no one hears
in the government hospital
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Related quotes
Lady In Waiting
LADY IN WAITING
silence
only the sound of
the tumble of thoughts
the baby sleeping
(within)
her sleeping
eiderdown feather
balanced on her tummy
baby kicks it off
she
washes...dresses
then washes dresses
early morning sickness
she can only stomach
sweetened tea
breakfastlunchsupper
the monotony of only
highly sweetened tea
she gets a craving
for fried onions
but only for the smell
cravings switch her on and
off like a light
bags of jelly babies middle of the night
the morning routine
shapes itself around her
throwing up up uP
her big big belly
baby takes her over
squatter's rights
out of the silence
a gull cries
baby cries in its sleep
her nipples weep
yawning time for
middle of the night feed
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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A Little Girl
A lil girl screams out in the night,
her hero comes a running,
as he pulls her close,
she knows he'll always be there.
A lil girl screams out in the night,
her boyfriend just ended it,
her hero comes a running,
he pulls her tight and wipes the tears away.
A lil girl screams out,
her hero comes a running,
her face is full of smiles,
he already knows whats coming.
A daddy crys out in the night,
his house is slient,
no more lil girls crying out in the night,
its time to let them go.
a lil girl hears her daddy crying,
its time to give the brid away,
no more having him run to her,
its time to give her away.
A lil girl crys out in the night,
she just got the call,
her hero is dying,
soon he'll be running to his daddy.
A lil girl crys out durning the day,
her daddy just passed away,
as she whisperes 'i'll always be your lil girl'
her daddy went off to Jesus.
poem by Lydia Kindle
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A French Visit
Early they arrived, my relatives, unpacking of suitcases,
kissing, jubilation and breakfast, during which all the latest
family gossip was shared. Then they all went to the beach
leaving the house in utter chaos. When returning we had
prepared a buffet, they had brought their wine, the French
are skeptical to wine not made in their country… god, how
talked. I have a small house had to sleep in my study, got up
at four working, but I liked the silence of people at slumber.
About five there were stirrings, people going to the toilet
and murmur of voices, I went back to bed or on my sofa.
Woke up at ten, they had already breakfasted and ready to
leave, kidded me for sleeping so late. Then an intense late
talking, like everything had to be said and crammed into
a few minutes, good byes lots of kisses and the old house
settled back to its usual quietude.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Welcome
Tommy:
Tommy:
Come to my house
Come to my house
Be one of the comfortable people.
Be one of the comfortable people.
Come to this house
Come to this house
Were drinking all night
Were drinking all night
Never sleeping.
Never sleeping.
Milkman come in!
Milkman come in!
And you baker,
And you baker,
Little old lady welcome
Little old lady welcome
And you shoe maker
And you shoe maker
Come to this house!
Come to this house!
Into this house.
Into this house.
Come to this house
Come to this house
Be one of us.
Be one of us.
Make this your house
Make this your house
Be one of us.
Be one of us.
You can help
You can help
To collect some more in
To collect some more in
Young and old people
Young and old people
Lets get them all in!
Lets get them all in!
Come to this house!
Come to this house!
Into this house.
Into this house.
Ask along that man whos wearing a carnation.
Ask along that man whos wearing a carnation.
Bring every single person
Bring every single person
From victoria station,
From victoria station,
Go into that hospital
Go into that hospital
And bring nurses and patients,
And bring nurses and patients,
Everybody go home and fetch their relations!
Everybody go home and fetch their relations!
Come to this house
Come to this house
Be one of the comfortable people.
Be one of the comfortable people.
Lovely bright home
Lovely bright home
Drinking all night never sleeping.
Drinking all night never sleeping.
We need more room
We need more room
Build an extension
Build an extension
A colourful palace
A colourful palace
Spare no expense now
Spare no expense now
Come to this house
Come to this house
Be one of us
Be one of us
Come into this house
Come into this house
Be one of us
Be one of us
Come to this house
Come to this house
Into this house
Into this house
Welcome
Welcome
song performed by by Who
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Last Night As I Was Sleeping
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.
poem by Antonio Machado
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Our Dreams Can Be Forgotten
our dreams are mere dreams
for what are dreams but dreams
and nothing but dreams
unfulfilled and so we
rationalize
that dreams are nothing but dreams
anyway
unfulfillable
as what our primitive natures
have always been
we then shift to the realities
that grab us
rather than we grabbing them
like personal properties
like a soap that we think must not
slip from the hold
of our definitive hands
and look
it falls right there at the toilet bowl
and we shrug
not to pick it
that feeling that something we held
has become dirty
will always be there to haunt us
but we learn the lesson well
as we shrug our
shoulders
and curl our lips and eyelashes
'so what? ' i'll have another.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Very Strange Tale
An unexpected and unknown pregnancy
That ushered a series of events
Brought Susan in a state of emergency
Confused in her predicament.
The doctor said she had miscarried
And the bleeding she had was not usual
Her fiance, they were to be married
But now they ended at the hospital.
So they brought her there for surgery
With only her boyfriend now in tow
She called up her mother and said briefly:
'Mom, they're operating on me, you must know.'
When the frantic mother had arrived
Poor Susan was covered in a white sheet.
The mother was told she did not survive
While on surgery, her Death she did meet.
Her sister said she could not believe it -
She had seen Susan in their room weeping,
She was on the bed, dressed in hospital sheets
Crying 'What have they done? I'm aching! '
The sister then asked her. 'How are you?
Are you alright? ' In a flash she had quickly gone
The strangest and weirdest thing came true -
That was the death time of a departed Susan.
Now at night at the hospital corridors
Night shift nurses hear someone weeping
Though dismissed as some silly horrors
Some still see a sad Susan there walking.
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Her Defense Mechanisms
she thinks
that i am getting cold on her
like
last night when i did not
have the chance
(or the nerve)
hugging her
and she was looking
at the ceiling
in total darkness
unable
to get some sleep
because
of her predicament
while i lay
soundly sleeping
on my soft pillow
and thick blankets
wrapping my
body away from
the world
hers
too tired i tell her
with lots
of work in the office
and too many
problems
to solve
the following morning
she takes
her bath so early
and washes
herself
her sorrow away
her
insecurities about
being unloved
(her own crude
way of thinking
and evaluating
things)
she goes to the kitchen
and cooks the feast
for her husband's
breakfast
(me?)
all the while
thinking
the basic principle
that the best
way to make
him love her
again
is always through
his stomach
and he laughs
the hardest
this morning
he will have
another day
of indigestion
because
he has to eat
more & more
if only
to please
her
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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And Death Washes Only Bones
And death washes only bones;
The mouth of death speaks oft of every tounge
Never his patience once lost is found in all your nature;
Death washes a bone and the astrologer hands two back,
So the moon when lined up, shines down on Venus asleep.
Time smiles on the heart beating and long of face therein,
death puts it back on the middle shelf prearanged.
And death washes only bones;
Deep valleys are filled with man's rich oil,
And covered over memories by death too often dredged.
Lined up end to end exposed again to harvest the tears of wait;
And death washes only bones and man who drinks so bold,
There being no truth and lies sown shut death eyes all bottoms.
d.t.
poem by Is It Poetry
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Because I Cannot Sleep Tonight
because i cannot sleep tonight
i have to pay the price
my morning and noon tomorrow
shall be my night
and the whole day i will sleep too
not speaking to anyone
not having breakfast
and lunch
another dinner for one on a candle light
they will all be sleeping
and i will be working
like a vampire have i become
thirsting for blood
wanting more flesh
shying away from the ordinary hustle and bustle
of this world
i wake up when everyone sleeps
i sleep when everyone wakes up
and soon they will all complain
and bury me
alive
because i have refused to learn how i must live
with them
and of course, they will not like it, tomorrow morning
the rules will be posted in the ref
they know i still need a drink, and the cold water
is stored in the ref
they are away on a trip, and they will wait
as always.......wanting to understand, wishing that i change....
i am still thinking, if i better get lost and be not found forever
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Teachers
I met a woman long ago
Her hair the black that black can go
Are you a teacher of the heart
Soft she answered no.
I met a girl across the sea
Her hair the gold that gold can be
Are you a teacher of the heart
Yes but not for thee.
I met a man who lost his mind
In some lost place I had to find
Follow me the wise man said
But he walked behind.
I walked into a hospital
Where none was sick and none was well
When at night the nurses left
I could not walk at all.
Morning came
And then came noon
Dinner time the scalpel blade
Lay beside my silver spoon
Some girls wander by mistake
Into the mess that scalpels make
Are you the teachers of my heart
We teach old hearts to break.
One morning I woke up alone
The hospital, the nurses gone
Have I carved enough, my lord
Child, you are bone.
I ate and ate and ate,
No, I did not miss a plate
Well, how much do these suppers cost
Well take it out in hate.
I spent my hatred every place
On every work on every face
Someone gave me wishes
And I wished for an embrace.
Several girls embraced me,
Then I was embraced by men
Is my passion perfect
No, do it once again.
I was handsome, I was strong
I knew the words of every song
Did my singing please you
No, the words you sang were wrong.
Who is it whom I address
Who takes down what I confess
Are you the teachers of my heart
We teach old hearts to rest.
Well, teachers are my lessons done
I cannot do another one
They laughed and laughed and said
Well, child are your lessons done.
Are your lessons done
Are your lessons done.
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Teachers
(leonard cohen)
I met a woman long ago
Her hair the black that black can go,
Are you a teacher of the heart?
Soft she answered no.
I met a girl across the sea,
Her hair the gold that gold can be,
Are you a teacher of the heart?
Yes, but not for thee.
I met a man who lost his mind
In some lost place I had to find,
Follow me the wise man said,
But he walked behind.
I walked into a hospital
Where none was sick and none was well,
When at night the nurses left
I could not walk at all.
Morning came and then came noon,
Dinner time a scalpel blade
Lay beside my silver spoon.
Some girls wander by mistake
Into the mess that scalpels make.
Are you the teachers of my heart?
We teach old hearts to break.
One morning I woke up alone,
The hospital and the nurses gone.
Have I carved enough my lord?
Child, you are a bone.
I ate and ate and ate,
No I did not miss a plate, well
How much do these suppers cost?
Well take it out in hate.
I spent my hatred everyplace,
On every work on every face,
Someone gave me wishes
And I wished for an embrace.
Several girls embraced me, then
I was embraced by men,
Is my passion perfect?
No, do it once again.
I was handsome I was strong,
I knew the words of every song.
Did my singing please you?
No, the words you sang were wrong.
Who is it whom I address,
Who takes down what I confess?
Are you the teachers of my heart?
We teach old hearts to rest.
Oh teachers are my lessons done?
I cannot do another one.
They laughed and laughed and said, well child,
Are your lessons done?
Are your lessons done?
Are your lessons done?
song performed by by 16 Horsepower
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Birth
These mountains: blackness, silence, and snow.
The red hunter climbs down from the forest;
Oh the mossy gaze of the wild thing.
The peace of the mother: under black firs
The sleeping hands open by themselves
When the cold moon seems ready to fall.
The birth of man. Each night
Blue water washes over the rockbase of the cliff;
The fallen angel stares at his reflection with sighs,
Something pale wakes up in a suffocating room.
The eyes
Of the stony old woman shine, two moons.
The cry of the woman in labor. The night troubles
The boy’s sleep with black wings,
With snow, which falls with ease out of the purple
clouds
poem by Georg Trakl
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Short; Silly: Ode To A Commode...Or....A Poem About Toilets
modern 'toilets' are large flushable porcelain bowls
which catch waste from both your and my exit holes.
i'm used to white ones with large flush-water tank.
a hidden pipe carries off stuff that often does smell rank.
some in japan were quite different……with no way to sit!
i'm glad i found 'my style' when t'was time to shit.
and if from toilet-paper usage you're leaning,
some toilets have the choice of an in-bowl shower, for cleaning.
toilet seats are sometimes colored, or cushioned, or even heated;
for me, more important (at times) is JUST to be SEATED!
toilets have changed since they were just holes in the ground.
i hope, when i 'need' a toilet, one's always around!
(4-4-2010)
poem by Bri Edwards
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As I Age
For six weeks,
I was in isolation.
To have every single secretion,
Coming out of my body analyzed.
Then scrutinized with x-rays and blood taken.
And for five months I laid up in a hospital,
Back in two thousand and four.
Being ignored,
While the nurses and doctors used me...
To explore.
And to have someone come up to my face and say,
Today...
I don't know what it is like to be criticized,
As if I stood naked! ?
They absolutely do not realize,
I thank God even my right eyebrow doesn't raise...
Not like it use to especially,
When I hear such ridiculous comments.
Not that I have anything against being naked.
It's just that I get fewer requests to do it as I age.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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It’s No Fun Going To The Toilet
it’s no fun, dearest friends,
going to the toilet
with your entrails full
and at zero hour
and rushing to the toilet
and finding every cubicle shut in your face
and you run to the next
and there are grunting pigs
behind closed doors
and you are truly full,
and you know you are in big trouble
and there is not even a discreet bush corner
in the god-forsaken damned city;
and you are walking up and down outside the doors
like an irate Principal at a school assembly;
it’s really no fun
putting yourself through such agony
to put yourself on such public display
going to public toilets
when you could have cleared all
and achieved dignity
with proper timing
and good though boring habits
it’s no fun, really -
dearest friends,
hastening to the toilet
when your pipe is nearly at bursting point
and you rush in to the toilet
and though lucky enough
to find an enclosure
it’s really no fun, is it? -
all that hurry and urgency
at near bursting point
as you pow-wow before the toilet bowl
and your buckle is stubborn
and you plead to your private self:
O no, no…don’t burst…not yet…
and your damned zip gets stuck just then
and you continue your war dance
and you plead to your intimate self:
O no, no…don’t burst…not yet…not yet, please;
please don’t do this to me-self –
and just then the zip comes asunder
and you pull it down like thunder
and oh, what a relief, no doubt –
but it certainly was no fun
going there to the toilet at near-breaking point;
and how are you going to face the world
with your zip burst
and your buckle broken and hanging over now?
oh, so, dearest friends,
trust me
(no wisecracks here, please)
oh all you children of the earth
all infants and old
and the genteel and the virile
and the incontinent
and the humble and those with golden toilet bowls –
it’s never fun to rush in to the toilet
at near breaking or bursting point;
and though good routine
and roughage may never be fun either
it’s safer than trusting in City Councils that
do not plan for citizens at bursting point…
poem by Raj Arumugam
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A Lousy Day
got a neck collar
afraid of the water
the soap snugs
the shampoo seals
like a mouth not
wanting a word
there is no comb
for the hair
strangled last night
by hefty hands
half naked one
faces the monitor
without blinking
the toothbrush is dry
the toothpaste is bitter
coffee is cold
and the rice smells
the bacon is not crisp
the table is dirty
three flies make a feast
of the sunny side up egg
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Cinderella Dance
Listening to the sweet sound of music,
As I'm swaying back and forth,
Closing my eyes and visualizing a dance,
Remembering my once Cinderella dance at my celebration.
Sitting on the front porch swings of my house,
I remember that day like it was yesterday,
Remembering my father came in the hospital room,
With my boyfriend who brought me flowers.
The music comes on and I stand up smiling,
He takes me by the hands and twirls me around,
My dad stands by the door smiling as well,
And when the song is over - I take his hands and dance with him.
My father calls me beautiful as a tear comes down his face,
Knowing that I'm cured from cancer,
He kisses my forhead and I whipe the tear away,
Nurses come in with balloons and such and it becomes a huge parade.
After a few years - my father gives me away,
But knowing I'm cured he feels happy as I whipe a tear coming down his face,
I kiss him on his cheek and he hands me to my boyfriend soon to be husband,
And we go off to our happily ever after.
As I begin to open my eyes,
I start to realize that my heart begins to hurt,
I fall to the ground,
And all I remember was everything went dark.
Doctors say they can't do anything,
So as I go up to heaven,
It's with my father and I dancing,
Over and over - to my Cinderella dance.
poem by Alicia Meyers
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When You Leave The House
i have known a lot of reasons why
you leave this house, you want to go shopping early morning
when the malls are still closed, but i do not really mind,
i think i understand (how is it when love starts to wane
like a diminishing moon last night, giving its final light
for the month) ,
you say you want to visit your mother you claim she is sick and
dying, i do not really mind at all (you are afraid to face
what faces us, this evident eyes of boredom staring at us
like we are convicts of finally wanting to cease to love)
still i will not mind, you leave again today
the kitchen falls short of shrimps and fish
there is no more lettuce and some black peppers
and red juicy tomatoes, (you are now fond of enumerating
things to me, you count your fingers and your toes and you
do not see straight in my eyes)
the olive oil is gone
yesterday, i spend time alone watching the sunset
on the boulevard (you are not with me)
(i know you want to be preoccupied with something else
some things that do not interest me)
you are not coming home
for a week or two, just a family emergency
in the city where you live
(did you tell me it is very noisy there?)
i watch the sun die finally
it is very peaceful outside
i wait and take my seat calmly on the cold bench
by the sea
there is no moon tonight
there is only this cold wind from the sea from that distant island
on the other side of this routinary existence
touching my heart
it is the longing of distance, the past coming back to me
the sea breeze still salty to my taste
so cold, that i finally shiver and leave at once
i cannot withstand this longing
this night unlike the other nights is darker
but i am still seeing the shadow of your beautiful face
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Because The World Has Not Given A Chance
when the doctor says
that he is a ticking bomb
i understand it,
soon he shall explode
without him
willingly detonating it
it is this neglect
of a thinking experience
the lackluster of the mirrors
of the soul
i do not blame him
dying is an option
when hope is no more
when this bomb explodes
it will be absurd to ask him
if he combs his hair
or washes his face
what to wear does not matter
or what perfume to dampen the skin
it is this annihilation
this dream of finally becoming nothing
because the world does not know how to give
what chances are there left
for the most ordinary man on the street
the underprivileged and the oppressed.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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