Quotes about nauseous, page 6
The True Born Englishman (excerpt)
...
Thus from a mixture of all kinds began,
That het'rogeneous thing, an Englishman:
In eager rapes, and furious lust begot,
Betwixt a painted Britain and a Scot.
Whose gend'ring off-spring quickly learn'd to bow,
And yoke their heifers to the Roman plough:
From whence a mongrel half-bred race there came,
With neither name, nor nation, speech nor fame.
In whose hot veins new mixtures quickly ran,
Infus'd betwixt a Saxon and a Dane.
While their rank daughters, to their parents just,
Receiv'd all nations with promiscuous lust.
This nauseous brood directly did contain
The well-extracted blood of Englishmen.
Which medly canton'd in a heptarchy,
A rhapsody of nations to supply,
Among themselves maintain'd eternal wars,
And still the ladies lov'd the conquerors.
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poem by Daniel Defoe
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What the Frack?
high pressure enemas
millions of gallons
crude solution fracking-fluid
25 to 75 percent resurfaces waste-water deluge
clastic fractures giving rise to
subterranean chemical carcinogens
fissile shale releases methane into
underground drinking water supply
Pavillion, Wyoming 2010,
EPA investigation finds 39
rural ground water wells
fresh drinking water contaminated
benzene and methane
fracking fluid additive
2-butoexythanol phosphate
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poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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The House Of Dust: Part 03: 09: Cabaret
We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence.
You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing
As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .'
Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only,
'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .'
You say: 'We sit and talk, of things important . . .
How many others like ourselves, this instant,
Mark the pendulum swinging against the wall?
How many others, laughing, sip their coffee—
Or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . .
'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence)
When suddenly we have had too much of laughter:
And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say.
Our mouths feel foolish . . . For all the days hereafter
What have we saved—what news, what tune, what play?
'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,—
Posturing like bald apes before a mirror;
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poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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When You’re Bad in Your Inside
I remarked that man is saddest, and his heart is filled with woe,
When he hasn’t any money, and his pants begin to go;
But I think I was mistaken, and there are many times I find
When you do not care a candle if your pants are gone behind;
For a fellow mostly loses all ambition, hope, and pride,
When—to put the matter mildly—he is bad in his inside.
Bobby Burns was down on toothache, and it troubled him no doubt;
But you know a man can always have a molar taken out,
And be all right then, excepting for the duller pain that comes
To the hollow that is lying like a gully in the gums.
But you can’t extract your innards—they must stay within your hide,
And you’ve got to moan and cuss it—when you’re bad in your inside.
You dunno what to take for it—you dunno what to do:
You are puzzled to remember what has disagreed with you,
You lie in all positions—there is none will give you ease;
And you think an aching stomach is the king of agonies.
You feel as though your innards in a double knot are tied,
While the devil ties it tighter—when you’re bad in your inside.
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poem by Henry Lawson
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The yuppie in the grey land
I
The office door closes
behind the man that leaves embarrassed
and the yuppie smiles
and sees himself as a banker
and knows that he takes much more
than he gives.
The usury act is gone
and fifty percent interest on loans
is a nice thing
and if people want to be stupid
it fits him well
and something bothers him
and he ignores it
as silliness.
With a burning cigarette in his mouth
he gets into his shiny machine
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Rise, O Days
RISE, O days, from your fathomless deeps, till you loftier, fiercer
sweep!
Long for my soul, hungering gymnastic, I devour'd what the earth gave
me;
Long I roam'd the woods of the north--long I watch'd Niagara pouring;
I travel'd the prairies over, and slept on their breast--I cross'd
the Nevadas, I cross'd the plateaus;
I ascended the towering rocks along the Pacific, I sail'd out to sea;
I sail'd through the storm, I was refresh'd by the storm;
I watch'd with joy the threatening maws of the waves;
I mark'd the white combs where they career'd so high, curling over;
I heard the wind piping, I saw the black clouds;
Saw from below what arose and mounted, (O superb! O wild as my heart,
and powerful!) 10
Heard the continuous thunder, as it bellow'd after the lightning;
Noted the slender and jagged threads of lightning, as sudden and fast
amid the din they chased each other across the sky;
--These, and such as these, I, elate, saw--saw with wonder, yet
pensive and masterful;
All the menacing might of the globe uprisen around me;
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poem by Walt Whitman
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To His Mistress
YOUR husband will be with us at the Treat;
May that be the last Supper he shall Eat.
And am poor I, a Guest invited there,
Only to see, while he may touch the Fair?
To see you Kiss and Hug your nauseous Lord,
While his lewd Hand descends below the Board?
Now wonder not that Hippodamia's Charms,
At such a sight, the Centaurs urged to Arms;
That in a rage they threw their Cups aside,
Assailed the Bridegroom, and would force the Bride.
I am not half a Horse (I would I were):
Yet hardly can from you my Hands forbear.
Take then my Counsel; which observed, may be
Of some Importance both to you and me.
Be sure to come before your Man be there;
There's nothing can be done; but come how e'er.
Sit next him (that belongs to Decency);
But tread upon my Foot in passing by.
Read in my Looks what silently they speak,
And slily, with your Eyes, your Answer make.
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Separation
I
You have left and I am missing life
do miss sitting in the mornings or evenings on the porch
or under the old pepper tree
to hear doves coo, small birds calling each other
or to see you making food in the kitchen
where you fry feta cheese with spinach,
where your are involved in conversations with me,
where I see you busy making fruit salad
where I at times pour a glass of wine for you
but more to hold you tightly against me,
to see the stars shining against the heaven
when the day grows faint from blue to black,
to hear you play a song over and over again,
to share maybe a hundred times with me.
II
To share maybe a hundred times with me
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Autumn's Window Decorations! ! !
Spring gallops with his unbridled flourish, flamboyant in display,
In winter solstice rebuked, mellow Sun languishes in disarray,
Sedate autumn tiptoes warily stepping over spring’s leftovers,
Triumphs over its boisterous fracas, spilling glory in arcade of mature colors,
Smarmy cold winds guzzle darkness, a vice reserved for the night,
Cajoling her to huddle, intoxicated take to bed the moon,
Under the light blanket of stars, tossed off with approaching light,
In silhouette lull descends, to disrobe nature at dawn
Summer dons its last garb with deviance, as Nature begs,
For just one more warm day to bask in the subdued Sun,
Stealing away our precious light as nightfall creeps faster into day,
September’s sloppy kiss, bids adieu to summer’s last hoorah.
Catching a light and a shade of a vibrant spectrum, worn-out leaves dangle,
Lets doubtful light filter, through the tapestry of their veins, delicate,
Into decorative window hangings, sequined with colorful gems from the deep,
Sunlight streams through in beams, in shimmering golden brocade.
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poem by Seema joglekar
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The Spleen
What art thou, SPLEEN, which ev'ry thing dost ape?
Thou Proteus to abus'd Mankind,
Who never yet thy real Cause cou'd find,
Or fix thee to remain in one continued Shape.
Still varying thy perplexing Form,
Now a Dead Sea thou'lt represent,
A Calm of stupid Discontent,
Then, dashing on the Rocks wilt rage into a Storm.
Trembling sometimes thou dost appear,
Dissolv'd into a Panick Fear;
On Sleep intruding dost thy Shadows spread,
Thy gloomy Terrours round the silent Bed,
And croud with boading Dreams the Melancholy Head:
Or, when the Midnight Hour is told,
And drooping Lids thou still dost waking hold,
Thy fond Delusions cheat the Eyes,
Before them antick Spectres dance,
Unusual Fires their pointed Heads advance,
And airy Phantoms rise.
Such was the monstrous Vision seen,
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poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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