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Vomitus Eruptus.

Updated on March 6, 2010

Vomitus Eruptus.

Bulemia's a country

whose main export

is toothpicks

in many colors

of flesh


skeletal puppets

genuflecting on

green strings

of what fashion demands.

Little known

to so many

here most throw

up their arms,

plus all that they eat,

and it gets hard to feast,

with nubs where arms were.

Here starvations unsolved,

many die though we send,

shipments of anti-acids,

that might let them digest,

just a wee bit of food,

after tossing their cookies,


Populated by young girls

so strikingly lovely

like matchsticks they pose in

a madhouse of mirrors

until they are consumed. 


And the scent of that land,

seldom visited often,

turns the stomachs of all

churning like sour butter

but each year brings new citizens,

spending months at the fountains

that all look like commodes

joining masses of people,

all filling up buckets,

with a vain sour mass,

of what's keeping them thin.



There's no fat cats allowed here

misery needs no company

when obese ladies sing

it's with wheezes of death.

Each in constant denial

they ignore bones protruding,

gluttony and then purging

on a trip straight to hell.




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