"acned" poems
a bottle of scotch had bad dreams.
bullets twitch, junk sick
in 3 inch thick
mustard ****
toe nails clipped from yeti
lay strewn about the **** stained corpse
of a motel six dixie cup -
root canal trophy,
next to
a black fez
with scab tassel
upended.
down in it. belching apnea
propaganda
and belladonna
waiting for curious george
to find a shotgun
and a yellow
hat
and a brick banana.
blowflies inhale the rank damp
of a fresh ****
the odd dog whines
like a clown in -
a blender.
[ the ]
house wins
with a marked card; jabbing fat fingers
into acned rosacea
bloated with sleep lack
and mortgage
back stab
chasing twenty ******
with a hollow point
pull from an acid
flask
while hailing a black cab.
tinsel sutures
stitch eyelids as a mercy
shattered bone knit
hand-grenade
cozies
old glory, at half mast
half wasted
fifty stars, no light
dragging on
the grounds of immunity
to do a line
of coke stock
with a basset hounds'
finesse.
your taxes at work
in columbia,
hiding from a lost farm
in Idaho
your american dream
turning tricks in shanghai
for a counterfeit
egga roll
your meme, devoid
like an ice cube
tombstone
your freedom, parking cars
for italian escorts
smoking skin flutes
for ferraris
and white teeth.
your integrity, sold to a hedge fund
for astroglide and a pez dispenser
packed with prozac
pressed by ' Jose the butcher' s abuela
in a narco slum
that ain't seen radio
since cinder blocks
had wings.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
black as the night sky
brown as flapjacks buttered and syrupy
peach as a peach farm tree
red as my son’s skinned knee
thick as an alligator
thin as a high-school waiter
acned and wrinkled
old and pickled
fresh as a baby’s bottom
fallen as the leaves in autumn
every mole, rash and blush
is lush with life
and hasn’t been touched
by a doctor’s knife
aging isn’t flawless
it’s beautiful
Jun 24, 2021
Jun 24, 2021 at 11:16 AM UTC
—For my brothers in cabins, in hiding, out-of-this-world.
I succumb to the baby-oiled glossy perfect flesh.
The abs, the pecs, the shiny ***** the angles
and shadows creating those illusions.
These man-boys, some still acned and purple with
non-air-brushed bodies, fascinate me. But
I look again. These are photos of posing and
***** boys.
They’ve never seen the planting of garlic, nor
the digging of a grave to put to rest a
beloved raccoon, nor the dirt-fresh smells of
putting-down a root cellar, nor anything
that is our ‘neighbors.’
So, my brothers, I have no gloss to share, no hot
glamour to peddle. Rather, I’ll give you
my ***** finger-nails touching men in black-
and-white portraits, who consume me
with life and earth and real *****
and warts and paunches and hard-earned
scars and stains and 2X4 poems.
© Lewis Bosworth, ca. 1980
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 9:11 AM UTC
Nothing depresses me more
than when a picture is taken.
A day of bliss
but when the camera comes out
I suddenly remember
how ugly I am.
Even on the days I feel pretty,
I smile and it flashes-
and the results bring me to tears
for even though I know I'm a heinous beast,
born with a pig's face
isntead of a human,
I still always wonder why I was cursed like this.
why I am perpetually a mutant.
I still have hope that I'll be satisfied with a picture one day,
that I won't grimace
and cry
and not feel a tremendous amount of guilt for the swans
that have to share the same photo as I,
and that maybe this nasty pink pudgy acned pig face will peel off.
I know it won't.
But I can hope.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 9:03 PM UTC
Bruises on the bulbs of his hairy lymph nodes,
Lucid and bothersome as soiled clothes –
What could a Spanish fly have to share
With that grovelling man over there?
Both are shaken and stirred tonight,
Smouldering in narcotic amber light.
Order, order; his pulp reflection wants
****** thrown at his better half –
Drain the abscess, help it depress
In a savoury bubble bath.
An acned pixie nicks kitty-licks
From her 6-inch flute of wine,
Amidst drags of palo santo
For the sober mind.
Shivering like a slinky, both bygone toys.
Walking down stairs,
Alone or in pairs,
Tons of fun for girls and boys.
Everyone’s a caricature rendered queerly
To anyone under the influence; clearly,
I could be a peddler of all things here –
Waiting on my ultimate compassion, hear:
W.Y.B.M.A.D.I.I.T.Y?
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 2:12 AM UTC
Here come we
as perfect a baby
Button nosed
and dimpled cheek
shrieking nights
and babbling morns
A handsome son
A beautiful daughter
Somewhere
Somehow
We become misfits
design by Evolution
or Grace
to take too much risk
with each other
Nose ringed
and potted face
acned ambivalence
and strident justice
We come together
in holy matrimony
to find outsized
reward randomly binds
only a few in rarified
forever
The languid eternity
of a few
short
nasty brutish and sharp
years
We leave her
We leave him
Here stay we
Dec 11, 2020
Dec 11, 2020 at 12:14 PM UTC