"bicep" poems
You are so beautiful you make my eyes burn
like you are a ray of sunshine-
but I love you more under the moon
we both are marked by craters
deep blue and black under our skin
I traced your veins with my fingers
and I just want to swim in them
I don’t know how many more times
I can write about the curl of your lips
and the way your hair turns at the edges
and about your legs
and chest
oh god your chest
and your collarbones
and the tattoo on your bicep
and the freckle in your eyes
and the dark burnt edge of it all
I don’t know how many more poems I can write
about how I want to love you forever
how I want to take care of you
how much your illness does not
define you as a person of value
oh god I ******* love you
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 11:05 AM UTC
I panicked.
My brain attacked today.
It attacked my lungs,
Stupid sharp whistling sounds.
I looked out of control.
But I felt aware,
that I wasn’t breathing,
that I was attacking myself again.
It attacked my heart,
terrifying skipping stones in my chest.
Whipped one by one,
Muffled blows in my breast.
I panicked.
I looked out of control but I was aware,
of the guilt,
of what will drag along with me.
I can’t be freed from fault,
It’s not the way.
Because I panic;
is why I don’t relate,
is how I cleanse.
Fright being necessary,
like a dream
where you muscle tone fails you,
I was paralyzed.
My knuckles hit the laminate –
again, again, again.
But I don’t move.
Feeling my bicep twitch,
Feeling my throat raw,
My mouth wide open,
But I don’t make a sound.
Because I panic.
The power inside,
will never translate,
to the outside.
People may see flickers,
of insanity in my eyes.
They may see me tighten up.
They may seem me strain and ease.
But I will never translate.
Until it snaps,
Until I no longer attack myself.
Until I no longer panic.
Until I bellow,
Until I howl,
Until I wail,
Until I swing and connect.
Until it attacks outwardly,
Instead of inwardly.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
o melanin
'tis of thee
sweet land.
what's your modus operandi?
i am ageing.
my muscles ossify
and i become stiff.
the bullet grazes the hair on my bicep
and my heart fires a lightning bolt.
i made it this time.
undo.
unison.
undo.
and leave me be.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 10:42 PM UTC
It burns in the heart
Of eighth grade girls
Sparkles like diamonds
In the watery eyes of the poor
It is born, kicking and screaming
In toddlers, before they can speak
It slowly dies and sputters
Out in old age
It is the bite and growl
In the dog fight
The motionless upper lip
Of botoxed trophy wives
It is the stacked and ripped
Bicep of the body builder
The clenched back teeth
Of every smiling presidential candidate
It resides in the pits
Of the stomachs of the second place
The money in the pockets
Of realtors
It is the fight to the top
The never give in
The blood boiling revenge in
Every made-for-TV movie
It is the Red, White and Blue
Blood, pumping through
Our country
Oct 3, 2012
Oct 3, 2012 at 5:24 PM UTC
We sit next to each other
In the mezzanine
Of the crowded theater
Our matching purple outfits
Far too dressy for the occasion
But who cares
We look **** good
You put your hand out
Palm up
And look at me
As I smile
My coy, giddy smile
And place my hand on top
Interlacing my fingers with yours
The lights dim
And the show starts
But you never let go of my hand
Even when it gets weird and clammy
You never pull away
Even when I snort into your shoulder
And wipe away my laughing tears
You still hold onto me
You gently stroke my arm
Your warm thumb
Against my smooth bicep
And I can't help but smile
I look over
And catch you staring
Which makes me blush
And get coy again
The mezzanine
The balcony
The floor
It all disappears
When I feel your touch
Your light touch
Just glide over my skin
I float to another dimension
When you lean over
And kiss my cheek
Only coming back
To the mezzanine
When I open my eyes
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 10:19 AM UTC
I cotton on
to the word
wordless
wanting
to respond
to the murmur
my mother swears
a certain crow
has carried
to a still
standing
cross
(the crow itself
not unreal
but akin
to the bygone
bicep
of our
jesus)
-
*I cannot share
the dream
I have
but can
its populace*
-
mom, when I meet god
for the first time
I will recognize
god.
mom, sickness has only one lover. how sad.
here are my slack
but bed-hopping
hands.
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 1:02 PM UTC
The message is simple, the delivery hard,
even as his eyes cut holes for it to enter.
White rims that flash, like beasts that spar
Natural strobes flicker, to thicken the black center.
When intent is replied with padded knuckle intent
Ungraceful, his neck turns past comforts vector.
I turn away to close a window from the storm.
Thought pathways like drunken footprints stepped
but a spark in the cloud of numbness replies.
My clenched thumb releases his bicep
And the arthritic cogs inside us violently un-subside.
Those muscle strings in my handwriting
to the letter the red bull replies,
but rain breaks my gaze to the window.
Knuckles like bruised alps in formation;
the boy’s got blood lightning in his eyes,
And so have I. ***** in the sockets I’m pushing on,
to revel in colors of my ****** mind’s sky.
I hurt myself to try telling that one ****** idea.
Tasting the punch, spitting iron, my Boxer I despise.
The classic writer’s hand ache makes me relinquish my pen.
Those axons, which lead to nothing,
they have now reached it.
Flayed to the winds.
The eye’s blinds closed completely.
In darkness, rasping breath resounding
and the lungs like strained gluttons for life
are clearly mocking the hearts desperate beating.
I put the pen horizontal to the desk.
It possesses all the use of a dead man’s organs.
But the sway, rains sweat from hair down to skin,
Then to polish the padded domes of pain.
When flesh rolls like thunder, bones crack like lightning.
His legs, my pen and both our minds are jarred from this refrain.
And upon the strike,
I’ll polish words and pad their meaning,
Punch the reader,
And enjoy the force that they contain.
Aug 25, 2013
Aug 25, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
The amount of similies in love poems are ridiculous.
They always remind me of how his eyes are as green as a Christmas tree
or how his hair fell onto his face like a shadow
or that when he blinked his lashes resembled butterfly wings
or that his smile was similar to a crooked coat hanger.
They never mentioned
how his fingers were long and shaky like branches in the wind
or how his shoulders hunched over like a good game of jenga
or how the curve from his chest to his torso was as steep as a hill
or that when I found the bruises on his stomach,
they were like ink splotches all over a beautiful poem.
They left out that his dad hit him like a train
or that his mom lived in the house like it was a bar
or that it would hurt like 16 bee stings
when I saw a line of 16 scars on his left bicep
or that the gasps in between his cries would sound like drowning
or that his eyes can ombre to be as red as an egyptian sunset.
They never warned me that he would come crashing down like an avalanche
or how his constant expression depicted a shattered stain glass window-
every piece beautiful but still apart.
They could've said that reading the headline
"local boy commits suicide"
would numb me like paralysis
or that hearing his last words would echo in my head like screaming in a cave
or that his funeral I would say
"loosing him was like an overcast of rain"
except I lied,
because losing him was like a flood
and that his grave stood out like a redwood tree carved of stone
or how his dad looked at his own hands like looking at maggots.
Love poems never said that I would miss him like being homesick
or that the drive to the cemetery would feel like skyrocketing to the moon
or that I would refuse to play jenga with my little cousins
or how I would hate hanging my clothes without seeing his smile.
The amount of similies in love poems are ridiculous.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 12:29 AM UTC
Like a rippling bicep flexing in the air
Fist pumping to signal new content to share
Protected by owls
The cure for the sun burnt scowl
Its colour and sky share the same hue
The only flag I'll salute, layered in morning dew
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 2:26 AM UTC
What could be fun than going to the beach?
It’s sunny and hot
But we must find the right beach spot
As I lay on the beach
I notice a Male Bodybuilder walking across
He starting the flex his bicep muscles at full force
The male *** had applied oil, which made his body glisten under the sun
But because I was at the beach, it was time for some water fun
It was into the water for a swim
It was full summer and time to dig in
While I was in the water, that male bodybuilder was continuing to show off
I saw the male bodybuilder kick sand in another male’s face
I had to take a picture with no time to waste
But the male bodybuilder kicked sand into the wrong male face
Because the other male happened to big and massive with muscles as well by way of Wrestling
This would be something to see, a male bodybuilder, and a male wrestler battling on the beach
Forget the water, Beer and food
Prepare the camera for a duel
It’s about to be strength against strength
Push and shove begin at first
Then the Wrestler knocked down the male bodybuilder causing cheers being an outburst
The male bodybuilder tried to get up and continue, but knew he was no match for the Wrestler
The flex became perplexed
The male bodybuilder had no choice but to walk away
Now that was entertainment on the beach that day.
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 2:54 PM UTC
So you pulled again.
In Essex, in London, in Leeds, in Weymouth...
The list goes on.
Why do you always tell me?
I'm not jealous. You're just ******* them.
But that photo with your arm around her.
You ****** her too, I'm sure.
Complimentary of toga night you're pretty much semi-naked.
It was the two lipstick marks on your bicep that got me.
Not one, but two! On your perfectly firm, right bicep.
The one I gladly tied a blue ribbon around, whilst
my face was turning as pink as my Girl Power bandanna.
I hope you'll change back to the changed man you said you would be,
after the Fresher's fortnight is done.
If not, as opposed to ******** me emotionally,just **** me too.
It'll never be enough, but it's better than your smug texts! x
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
Something subliminal
in the way a man smells;
his odor, his pheromones,
his testosterone seeping from under his skin
massaging my nasal passages
making me dreamy and sleepy
and tickly inside.
There's a unique quality
so pure and primitive
in the movement of a muscle
accidental
not for show
so private, the tension in a bicep.
It acts without the knowledge of being watched
and would move if no eye were there to witness,
but sometimes
we do
and we see the knobs of strength pulled tightly under skin,
dying to burst through flesh
and reveal masculinity to the sun.
Some kind of trivial beauty in the sweat on a face
after a long day outside
building a fence
cutting grass
tackling an opponent;
the liquid rolls down limbs
out of pores
drips
onto ground, nourishing the grass,
enticing
a nectar caused by labor and struggle,
grunts and power
energy.
Something so simple
in the sight of a male,
sturdy, like a house
a home to be enveloped in,
protected from the elements trying to rust our joints.
The testosterone fuels the movements, the thoughts,
and desires.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC
On that tipsy floating dock All of us ran to the side
Trying to get as far as possible without tipping it or
Falling off.
Even though we were in our bathing suits...
I remember screaming
Then you reached
Your hand brushed my forearm
Your fingertips tickled my palm
And then intertwined with my fingers.
Then as we fell off
I grabbed your bicep
Why did you do that to me?
I'm a girl.
So I played that moment
Again and again and again and again
Like a song
That you don't hear anymore
After you listen to it too much.
But our hands I still
Remember.
Our hands.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC
As I raise my morning coffee cup
my right bicep muscle flexes
and my right forearm muscles flex
and I am
enjoying
my muscles flexing;
I play
a music video
on my kitchen television
and dance
around my kitchen
flexing every muscle
in my body
and I am
experiencing
Muscle-Flexing-Joy.
Oct 19, 2021
Oct 19, 2021 at 5:02 AM UTC
i find it strange to be politically correct,
without actually exercising any political
career-motive as a member of a government...
because that's what's we're being sold:
to be politically correct, without a career in
politics. doubly strange, to foster non-antagonising
views on everyday matters,
to later realise that whoever we're antagonising
from an environmental bias (rather than
a personal bias) we will never share a dinner with...
so like our opinions mattering in the first place
was by-and-large, just a media hoax to
ensure we were all prescribed the safety of
walking the tight-rope... and never really
designating ourselves the freedom of the constitutional
rights - this leftist bias remains intact,
on the canvas of freedom of speech, however
that freedom allows us to see rural endeavours in talk,
the once appreciated freedom is becoming a polarised
freedom to name & shame... a media hammer or nail...
because it's only freedom when enough people
agree with "us", to allow a bicep expression of
being backed up like some Spartacus...
i mean, i don't agree with most expression,
but i wouldn't **** the hornet's nest with the media
frenzy to appear politically correct... when
so few of us actually have any political power....
being sold free speech, to be later curbed with
political correctness is a bit cancerous....
given that free speech is equated to the voting X
from the age of mass illiteracy...
i don't see how free speech became a vehicle for
acquiring constrained speech dynamic -
when did we forget the chastity of speaking the airy-fairy
things in life on the informal basis, and when did we
become so ****** friendless, estranged, outsiders
to everything that matters... and now, supposedly
between butcher and greengrocer, talking about
the weather in cocktail smocking and bow-tie?
free speech gave us the rights to not ask for political powers...
on whatever governmental tier...
prescribing us political correctness has given the everyday
John the delusion that he can process political power...
the once famous strive for speaking what the hell you want
but not wanting political power changed into
being prescribed political correctness but no political power...
so i ask you... what's the point of being politically
correct, if you gain no political power,
unless you're a rat, a snitch, spying on your neighbour
to grass them out? because that's what political correctness bred,
snitches... those given political correctness laws
were never given any other political power...
added to the fact that they wouldn't have said anything
interesting / provocative anyway.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 9:50 PM UTC
I saw Stewart and Maud under a locust tree in Kensington market.
They had new bicycles. She leaned her sweaty, curly head on his bicep.
They had baguettes, flowers, asparagus and apples from the farm booths in their packs,
Buzet and Minervois from the liquor store, library books. They had life-loving things.
He says that for him this new life is instead of being an artist in Paris:
Backpacks, bicycles, the look of young lovers. The little possessions
That don't feel like a car or a house. They are wearing bright white t shirts
And denim overalls. His children are confused. They have little money.
He joined the many who have refused to be punished for a mistake.
My friend Stewart lives with a university student.
You get to their Annex apartment up iron stairs bolted to the
Outside of a building of old brick coloured like a driftwood campfire. The bed's iron.
She's been an adult for seven years. Iron, bricks, flowers, white iron bed,
Stewart has the skills to make it good, he's done this before, made the Muskoka
Chairs, the harvest tables, and sold them, repaired window frames and doors,
Advertised in supermarkets. He likes to breathe, to drink water, to cut wood and dress it,
To study, to read, to live well with a woman, to write in the evening, to make life like art.
Paul Anthony Hutchinson
www.paulanthonyhutchinson.com
copyright Paul Anthony Hutchinson
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 10:52 PM UTC
No confusion wrinkles her forehead, eyes affixed first on his lips
until magnetically drawn to eyes blue as a mountain lake.
Comfort rests across her chest. Hips burn together and
her cheek brushes the ironclad hardness of his bicep.
They walk enmeshed. Traces of trepidation,
scars embedded in her mind from tragic romance, fade.
Residual fears fall to the trail among twigs and stones.
Rebirth of trust creeps into her heart.
Together their feet trample her qualms.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
You've never loved,
I guess you never could.
Being in love's not cool,
And you don't want to look a fool.
Oh your spoilt for choice,
All the girls are yours,
For the taking,
Everyone knows you're in for some **********
Just cause you can bicep curl a twenty,
You think you're cooler than me,
You took my best mate's girl,
And you ruined his world,
He thought he had nothing left,
Now he's hanging by his neck.
I tell you what, when you wake up, you should shake up, and get your ego from mind, cos your wasting everybody's time.
Oh your spoilt for choice,
All the girls are yours,
For the taking,
Everyone knows you're in for some **********
I bet you're proud,
bout what you done,
and tell the crowd,
that it was fun.
Come Saturday night,
You'll pick a fight,
With a 5 foot man,
Who's too drunk to stand.
Oh your spoilt for choice,
All the girls are yours,
For the taking,
Everyone knows you're in for some **********
Oh you think you're cool,
You're probably the most popular guy at your school.
I suppose confidence is good,
When you live,
In this neighbourhood,
Where you live.
Oh I've heard your jokes a million times,
When I've passed by,
A crowd of desperates and cheaters and liars.
Oh your spoilt for choice,
All the girls are yours,
For the taking,
Everyone knows you're in for some **********
But someday it'll come back to bite you I bet,
But I know you won't fret,
Cos it's not what you do.
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 12:59 AM UTC
Don't look me up
You will not like what you find
Past is past for a reason
I forgive quickly but
Deep cuts scar the best
Belt around the bicep
I'm accustomed to balled fists
Bruised and pierced
Swimming in a broken blood vessel
Cause I just wanna forget- Everything
I can see it in your eyes
You wanna fight or **** me
Can't tell you the difference
Because
I don't want to go to hell
Maybe just a visit
God hates track marks
But the devil likes to kiss them
Demons want to talk to me
While I'm at dinner with my family
On repeat
The world is spinning
And I am on a certain dark street
Lurch lights a cigarette when the cop lights flash on
One more strike and you're gone
A God of second chances
I would know for certain
Just a peak behind the curtain
Heaven sent oblivion
I'm fine with being alone
Its better this way
Because people ask too many questions
Like:
Why are you wearing long sleeves on a hot summer day?
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
We leaned into each other's personal space.
The pebbled surface of her bicep rubbed against my tattoo the skin gently rasping.
When she stepped close, close enough our arms brushed, I was reminded of how well she knew me.
We shared a dark intimacy over identical experiences.
She understood my demons on a deeper level.
I felt less alone with her, less fake.
Our mutual knowledge of the other meant I didn't have to pretend.
When I had to leave home she sheltered me.
For a week I learned about her experiences, quirks, triggers, and lifestyle.
Nothing was left out.
It took three nights before I could be coaxed into her bed.
I had been sleeping in the closest unwilling to join her.
She lent me her car during my stay.
Her driving privileges were temporarily revoked.
I drove her everywhere.
Everything we did had an undercurrent of personal knowing.
It was a private understanding of the other.
It brought us closer in more ways than proximity.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC
Good morning,
It's a beautiful day
to romanticize my own death
Good morning,
My brain is doing this
Brand new ****** up thing
And it's hardly 8 AM
I used to know how to float
Now I'm drowning
I used to know how to keep my distance
Now my feet are dangling over the edge
And I have this constant feeling in my stomach
Like I'm already falling
And I'd ask you to talk me down
But we haven't been talking
And I'd ask you to hold my hand
But you can't reach me
From where I've been hiding
I don't know
What it is
About this bed
That's begun to feel
Like a coffin
I drink coffee at night
And pills in the morning
I am tired
But not for a
Lack of sleeping
My dad has a doctorate degree
In civil law
I'm 22 and a freshman
With very little direction
I've been disappointed in myself for so long
But I haven't done much to change it
I thought maybe yoga
Would enlighten me
But I don't like the way
My body looks
When it bends
I thought maybe
A boy could save me
From feeling ugly
But he doesn't like they way
My body looks
When it bends
And he doesn't say it
He doesn't say much at all
But I could tell,
I was born intuitive
And I've been trying
Lately
To shake it
Cause everyone's thoughts
Are cold and painful
And I don't wanna see them
Anymore
I get paid
to bathe people,
to feed them,
to do their laundry,
And to make them smile,
But they still tell me
Right before they fall asleep
At night,
Right before I finally get
To leave them,
That I'm going to Hell
For the pictures in my skin
That I thought I needed
When I got them
I just wanna love something
I just wanna feel loved sometimes
There's a broken heart
on my right bicep
With a banner through it
That reads "myself"
And I'd say it's pretty honest
I've been breaking my own heart
Since I learned how to be
Introspective
When I was eight
I've been breaking my own heart
I just wanna be kind
To myself
And to the boy
Who holds me
And to the friends
Who call me
And to the family
Who supports me
I just wanna be kind
To my mind
And to my body
Show me how
To be decent
I'm so cruel
Anymore
Oct 24, 2016
Oct 24, 2016 at 9:40 AM UTC
you become one with yourself
in a yoga class
with a basketball game happening
directly overhead
you feel at peace - at least
you are supposed to
with heavy eyes you walk out
loose and floating
you walk to the gym
and do bench press
bicep curls
tricep extensions
you are nothing if not
you are nothing without
you are nothing but
a predictable perfectionist
staring into your own eyes a million miles away
contradicting yourself
on a microsecond by microsecond basis
you eat a rice cake
Oct 19, 2014
Oct 19, 2014 at 9:17 AM UTC