"adipose" poems
where am i?
how am I to write when
I am no different from
those gaseous ephemeral words
who lie prostrate upon
the pages of my dictionary
carved plainly into
those battlefields strewn across
the wartorn country
my heart the despotic dictator
whose primal drumming
carries no tune
and no rhythm
and throws of explosions
grenades that
black out the world for
a brief moment
until it careens back and
slams into me
disorientated
i should have been born twice
for how could i have
both my body and that
intangible inexplicable
something inside
it stirs at the molten core
of me
that chasm that forged
those graven images
that first gave way to
a pictographic language
and offered me
a voice
to explain that immutable
all powerful
urge
lust
to throw myself on that
red button and
detonate
burst into a million pieces
and finally relieve that
nauseating pressure
of adipose smushed between
holy bone and
saintly skin
interloping in that space
and separating two lovers
barriers create madness
walls box me in
and yet i grow
an expanding balloon girl
macy’s day parade and
candy littered streets
and razor sharp edges
to steel walls pressing harder
against me than
my supple skin could
ever possibly press
back
i can’t breathe
there is no room
for my lungs to expand
and feel the
fresh sun filled meadow
of crystal air
delivering oxygen to
starved alveoli
and i can’t find your chest
to guide me
in impossible respiration
i’m suffocating in my own skin
from no outside force
but my body itself
turns inward and
shouts its dominance at my
cowering self
sniveling in the corner
of my dusty half used heart
where no blade could possible
land a blow deep enough
to silence the torment and
particular personal poison
a torture to course through
every part of me
activating every single neuron
and making me
hyperaware of my
shame and noxious
venomous corpulence
a reality i
never wanted you to see
but is written plainly
in fiery script across my forehead
and in every fold of fat.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 10:22 PM UTC
I want the hollow
Cheeks.
The full, adipose, smooth
Lips.
The white-boned,
Pearls she calls
Teeth.
I want the bright, clean,
Sun bleached
Hair.
The fine, sharpened,
Ready for scratching, Spotless
Nails.
The refined, sculpted,
Long, profiled
Nose.
I want gold to flake,
Off my ageing,
porous, dull,
Skin.
I want the protruding,
Famished, angled
Bones.
I want the pumping,
Arrhythmic
Heart.
The tired, hissing,
Tar coated, smoker’s
Lungs.
The round, fleshy,
Cellulite covered
***
The motherly, but
Childless plump
*******
I want the barren,
Bleeding, afflicted
******
I want the faint,
Wispy, high-pitched,
Call that she calls a
Voice.
The bruised, bulging,
Porcelain polished, etched
Knuckles.
The wide, protruding,
Ballooned up, dangling
Hips.
The numb, heavy, metal
Flavored, gum bleeding
Mouth.
I want the skewed,
Backwards, lost
Pedals she calls
Feet.
I want the hearing less,
Wax, pus covered,
Ears.
The lost dull, lifeless
Dumbed down, blue
Eyes.
I want to be her,
All of them, and none.
I want to be lost,
Unwilling, tame, voiceless,
Mindless, childless,
Sexless, man-less.
I want to be her, but I
Can’t.
I cannot because I am
Thought burdened, fat,
Violent, screaming,
Child laden, broken nosed,
Coarse.
I cannot because dirt
Flakes off my young
Skin.
Because my heart pumps,
Oxygenated blood,
At a steady, rhythmic
Beat.
My voice baritones,
Deep, bottomless,
Whispers.
I sit on flat, concave
Muscle.
My lungs breathe,
Strong, fresh, smog-less
Air.
Yellow stained, grainy, calcium-ridden
Teeth.
Dark, musty, greased
Hair.
I want to be her,
But I won’t.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 1:18 PM UTC
She lives in a figurative cube of lard
A clear turmoil tunnel channeled like
a river of boiling fat filled with shards
of shining glass shattering her flaccid
memory lacerates each emotion or
turn into adipose gluttony
I wear my heart on her terry cloth robe
the brain she was born with is the
***** on her clothes
May 5, 2012
May 5, 2012 at 5:22 AM UTC
He would have been an artist
but that being was now lost
hidden beneath the folds of fleshy strata
hanging like a neurosis, soft as adipose
lost under his belly.
He may have been a father
but that too was lost under
the pendulous judgement of
his blunted dreaming state.
He could have been a sculptor
an artist as they would have said,
instead he now whittles archaic
spoons with which to sup from
his sad bucolic dreams.
In between aspirations, as a hobby,
he runs his fat fingers through women's
hair, a round eyed
would be Taoist, wending prayers
through lost valleys.
And for a living he pins tails
on donkeys calls himself an eastern
practitioner. A Zen mystic .
An acupuncturist.
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 2:36 PM UTC
In the girdle of times stricken woes
Collected around a shank wholesome with girth
Hidden beneath the adipose tissue
Of many a feast, ale and tasteful dessert
Oh my
Seems like far back in yonder years
Sans worry sans problems sans regret
That the natural Adonis sinews
Gifted by the Creator
When we were granted our first breath
Were admonished as malnourished
Back in the day
Back in the day
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 6:00 AM UTC
Sugar is bad for you,
especially,
saccharine maple thoughts
that you cannot afford
due to the hazard
of overweight ego
dense with the aftertaste
of adipose fantasies
clogging the arterial bonds
that tether you
to solid ground
Stop the caramelized madness
from carbohydrating your soul
into victim obesity
causing the full
arrest of your spirit
The sweet is guilty,
distorted in mirrors,
a negative image
of a past feeling,
present reflection
born of the collision
of intentions and consequences
Jul 4, 2017
Jul 4, 2017 at 7:46 AM UTC
spiritless and well oiled,/ /suspended in a floating film of/ /in-animation./ /weighty./ /threaded./ /the rambling nature of death./ /a slow spring,/ /thick and viscous... seething out of layered cracks./ /veining out as a muddied road map./ /but it's the hard bits that hit you hard./ /fingernails./ /they picked scabs./ /peeled citrus./ /scratched and plucked./ /and/ /and teeth once white. eclipsed by gray./ /they smiled, they bit nervously on pencils./ /perhaps had work done./ /(maybe just a filling.)/ / what was kept solid with an inner structure- yet unraveled./ /ragged bones./ /reduced in years and yet remain/ /adipose in apodosis./ / shadowed mutely / / with whispers of those ragged bones./ /
Aug 18, 2011
Aug 18, 2011 at 12:41 AM UTC
I'm your knight in shining armour
I'm your bane, your adipose
I'm the reason you're not happy
I'm your **** your tuberose.
You're my shock, my half cooked omelette
You're my biscuit never picked
You're my very painful fracture
You're the fur ball cats have sicked.
He's the one you should be courting
He's the one that hides distaste
He's the martyr, self inflicted
He's the life that's gone to waste.
She's the one that smiles at no-one
She's the girl that lives alone
She's the happy, carefree songbird
She's the chocolate scoffing crone.
Count your blessings maid of plenty
Lucky that you've never cared
Comatose to squires, to gentry
That beating lump you've never shared.
Dec 13, 2019
Dec 13, 2019 at 12:50 PM UTC
Weak.
Weak is surrendering
To the alluring voice of chocolate
And devouring rice by the spoonful.
Weak.
Weak is.
Adipose dangling from your armpits
And jiggling thighs each step
Strong is
Perfection.
Inhaling ash and smoke while
The mortals simply gorge
Wispy arms and jutting ribs
Empty inside. Pills.
Strength is weakness.
Too weak to stand
Waking up from hunger pains
Blackened vision.
This is how you become perfect.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
I miss the projectile of sexiness that emits
with your speech.
I miss the smile that seems
mixed with life in itself; just like your blood is, speaking of which;
I miss the shy blush in your astute composture,
it leaves me wondering how could she be so pure.
I miss the splendid rear view;
Where adipose seems to fight for rescue.
But the elasticity of skin
manages to keep it in.
I miss the organs beneath your brows that enable you see.
Bless them; as they contribute to your appreciation of the nothingness in me.
I miss the warmth of your skin & its smoothness;
I miss your slow motion like gentleness,
I miss that scarce prudence;
same ilk as an air bubble in a large body of water.
I miss your application of sweetness; an abstract knife that cuts through me like butter.
It is you that I miss.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 4:36 PM UTC
Affliction with mental illness beasts sans,
depression, panic/ anxiety
obsessive compulsive disorder
didst for most of my lix splitting life zap
psychological state plagued with
sweaty palms, irritable
bowel syndrome, mind chatter
constantly doth yip and yap,
whereby extensive stretches of time
bore cerebral torture
housing invisible
mailer daemon nemesis wrap
ping entire corporeal to suicidal ideations
to escape once and for all asphyxiating,
gamesomely hectoring imps,
nauseating non-apparent trap
regularly pitching emotional
welfare to and fro,
hither and yon, thence
lashing out at self - summarized
with the non medical term,
yet descriptive word "snap"
though a half dozen medications
(listed as follows) alleviate
sensation akin to feeling
besieged, and pugilistic-ally rapped,
yet (Quetiapine tab 300mg,
Clomipramine cap 50mg,
Fluoxetine cap 40mg,
Fluoxetine cap 20mg,
Busipirone tab 15mg,
and Clonozepam tab 0.5mg)
prior to prescriptive palliatives,
aye experienced
debilitating quality of life, thus I accept
function-able, manageable
unfortunate side effects such,
viz thinning hair,
necessity to take daily nap
abdominal weight gain, where love handles
replaced wash board stomach, adipose tissue
not quite spilling o'er me lap
so in summary burden of proof
no longer tethers Sisyphean rolling rocks
interestingly enough this figurative lid locks
akin to sealing schizoid "Pandora box).
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 4:25 PM UTC
The texture of the glass is rough with blemishes,
convex with swells of adipose tissue
and spotted with stray hairs.
The occasional splotchy flush
on the sallow complexion
is just enough to suggest life
but not in the right locations
to suggest beauty.
The glass sneers.
The glass snarls.
It takes handfuls of its dull, lanky hair
and yanks,
as if with one tug, the entire image could come to a screeching halt
like the break line on a train.
It's a hideous image,
but it doesn't frighten like a vision of a monster.
Instead,
it insights a painful tug in the chest cavity,
an ache,
a slow, throbbing pang
that lengthens with every glance.
Nothing feels quite as horrible
as the realization
that even if the glass breaks,
comes to the floor
and splinters,
shatters...
Its duplicate will still exist.
In me.
Dec 12, 2017
Dec 12, 2017 at 4:34 PM UTC
my body is a hole
that is yet to be
carved
out
into your eyes i want to be ****** in
your palms and my sharp edges
can i make you bleed
can i make a mold for you
out of
my pain, my pain, my pain
i'm completely in
covered in flesh
come be my adipose
i'll empty you
out
skin be poked
from within
and giggles, bleak dimples
moon-eyed
the face is the outer space
dark. suffocating.
a graveyard of dead stars.
can we be bigger than what we are
can we suddenly stop to appear
hide
it's rampage
everywhere
i'm melting coming back frozen contaminated.
there's no fixing it
Feb 8, 2019
Feb 8, 2019 at 3:15 AM UTC
When e'er i chance
to steel a passing glance
in the mirror hairline fractures appear
than 'afore long
snap, crackle, pop
becomes crystal clear,
whence aluminium glass mirror
(made of a float glass
incorporating additional processes)
leaves highly reflective surface patina 'ere
one narcissist ken
while away countless hours
preening, primping, and pruning
e'en the slightest glare
ring blemish finds cause
for cosmetic surgery
evincing interlinear
crows feet and dark
circular "bags" that distinctly lear,
which medical term for skin folds
and ballottable skin edema
described as “festoon,”
or “malar mound,”
an eye sore overclear
demanding immediate
dermatological action
(if necessary) taking
extra adipose tissue from rear
end supposed extra junk in the trunk,
where derrière,
would not be unduly sore,
perhaps requiring
(whatever would suture self)
plus extra padded underwear
which subjugation voluntarily
"going under the knife,"
would stave off depredations aging
(such as puffy eyes)
at least for another year.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 11:22 PM UTC
****** Ignorance parks her brand new SUV next to Sociopathy, who barely raises a hooded reptilian eyelid as he sells seven Fentanyl tablets to Diversity under a narcotic cloud of monotonous insistent bass beats. Equity is quarreling with Under-representation over Authenticity in fake Wokeness, bellowing and flexing tattooed muscles as the Walmart security staff jiggle their immense wheezing obesity to the scene of the escalating drama. Onlookers are quickly gathering up all the Ukrainian color posters from the parking-posts as they disperse, grabbing as many free samples of THC-infused Delta-8 gummies as they can from the abandoned sales-promotion table on their way out. Uncouth plebeian tremors are undulating over the entire trash-strewn parking lot as filthy seagulls take wing, squawking.
*Shut UP **** ain't LIKE THAT*! shouts Urban Degeneration at her baby-daddy who spits cannabis-cola all over her threaded beaded extensions. He drops their child, Criminalisha, still strapped into her carrier, onto the pavement and lunges at Urban D.
*I'ma hafta **** you UP now, ***** murmurs Poochie tha Kontrolla (aforementioned baby-daddy) and proceeds to tie her hair extensions to the handle of her SUV. He bites her hand until she drops the keys, which he grabs and then he jumps into the driver's seat. The engine roars.
Meanwhile, in the gathered crowd of onlookers, Miss Cultural-appropriation berates an old man for wearing a rice-paddy shade hat on a cloudy day when he only .05 percent Asiatic. The Walmart security staff have mistakenly sat upon and handcuffed one of their own who screams for his meds and therapy canine. As police sirens are heard approaching, America Corpulenta rolls her fat bloodshot eyes and launches her immense rolls of adipose tissue into orbit towards the international space-station.
*My interstellar-ass rocket gone KICK you ******* lil' space station you racist-ass bigot*, she yells to no one in particular . . .
And America, although no one there realized it, was indeed GREAT.
Aug 28, 2022
Aug 28, 2022 at 7:48 PM UTC