"bulging" poems
As night falls, the air thickens
her pulse races and his pulse quickens
the depths of their thoughts rise to the surface
her body language speaking tongues
their eyes contact and the translation is done
his soul listens
heart beating fast
flesh burning like a furnace
flame lasting longer than they last
lust coursing through her body's viens
like lava melting a porous surface
her window panes with purpose
as their bodies join like cursive
bulging with awareness
his presence is her nearness
their bareness
flipping her world
altering her state of mind
impulse triggerin pulse
a his embrace
tightens
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 4:10 PM UTC
I was thinking of a son.
The womb is not a clock
nor a bell tolling,
but in the eleventh month of its life
I feel the November
of the body as well as of the calendar.
In two days it will be my birthday
and as always the earth is done with its harvest.
This time I hunt for death,
the night I lean toward,
the night I want.
Well then--
It was in the womb all along.
I was thinking of a son ...
You! The never acquired,
the never seeded or unfastened,
you of the genitals I feared,
the stalk and the puppy's breath.
Will I give you my eyes or his?
Will you be the David or the Susan?
(Those two names I picked and listened for.)
Can you be the man your fathers are--
the leg muscles from Michelangelo,
hands from Yugoslavia
somewhere the peasant, Slavic and determined,
somewhere the survivor bulging with life--
and could it still be possible,
all this with Susan's eyes?
All this without you--
two days gone in blood.
I myself will die without baptism,
a third daughter they didn't bother.
My death will come on my name day.
What's wrong with the name day?
It's only an angel of the sun.
Woman,
weaving a web over your own,
a thin and tangled poison.
Scorpio,
bad spider--
die!
My death from the wrists,
two name tags,
blood worn like a corsage
to bloom
one on the left and one on the right--
It's a warm room,
the place of the blood.
Leave the door open on its hinges!
Two days for your death
and two days until mine.
Love! That red disease--
year after year, David, you would make me wild!
David! Susan! David! David!
full and disheveled, hissing into the night,
never growing old,
waiting always for you on the porch ...
year after year,
my carrot, my cabbage,
I would have possessed you before all women,
calling your name,
calling you mine.
27.1k
I have the most enormous *****
Men talk to them, not me, it's true,
"How are 'we' today" they say,
With bulging eyes, to my dismay,
Oy I'm up here, I want to say,
Not wishing to destroy their day,
I smile back sweetly, a little shy,
All three of us are fine, I reply,
That said, my ***** I couldn't be without,
I'm sure they pull my wrinkles out. :)
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC
Never should I love,
For never will you love me.
Never will your deep, blue eyes
Look in mine and read my mind,
Like a psychic running her fingers along the lines of my palms.
Palms that belong to hands you’ll never hold,
And handle with care like you would antique china
And at the same time grip with a firmness that tells me you’ll never let go.
You’ll never let go because you’ll never wrap your soft,
warm arms around me in the first place.
Your soul will never entangle with mine and fill that void
Left by a **** sliced deep within me.
A **** left by my father’s youth,
And my mother’s faith,
Whose knife cut out their acceptance for me
And gouged out my trust in them.
Can’t you see that you are the antidote to my lifelong suffering?
The Accutane to my welted face,
The braces to my crooked teeth,
The nitro to my aching heart
The rhino to my bulging nose
The morphine to my broken mind,
The running to my fading health
Running, running, running away
Far away from this broken house
Where your dreams never do come true and
Where you come out to yourself alone in the bathroom and
Where they can’t ever know the truth because my house is
Where God resides in the attic and
Where Jesus is the only one you should let in your room at night and
Where The Holy Spirit has possessed us all to live a lie because my house is
Where lifelong love is dead at the delivery room
And who is there to blame but me?
Who is there to blame but me?
But none of that matters to you.
It can’t matter to you,
Because all you do is love
And love
And love
And love
And love.
But you never love me.
Each year I have known you
I have reached out farther than the last,
Yearning for something I could never obtain.
Fifteen pushes past Fourteen,
Both of whom fall short of Sixteen’s growing arms,
Which are narrowly outpaced by Seventeen’s spindly, wirey fingertips.
Every Year’s efforts have met the same fate;
Failing to reach their target they instead grasp fruitlessly
Into a dark, brewing storm,
Full of tears,
And of crackling sparks of hope
That are met with the resounding booms of fate
Telling me that I am doomed to be alone.
Telling me that never should I love,
For never will you love me.
But I never listen.
Because I know you too well.
And I know that someday,
Someday soon,
You’ll make the happy accident
Of stepping too close to my many straining hands,
And I’ll pull you near to me
And you’ll realize that you never loved her at all.
And that you always,
always have loved me.
-The Boy Who Loves You Too
Sep 29, 2016
Sep 29, 2016 at 10:42 PM UTC
It’s all you’ve ever seen
in a midnight’s dream
the zero sum games
and exorcised demons
asinine plunges
on tunkwa brides
phantom fingers cradling
the ragged red dress
shadow hands
clasp at the floodgates
lava fields boil
through scorched amber veins
needles pierce
the look out
where flames dance wildly
over boneyard grounds
deep red pedestals
behind bleeding walls
empty halls and doorways
throughout the sinful nest
bulging eyes and blood rush
in a dark crimson sky
a funeral, before I die
Dec 10, 2016
Dec 10, 2016 at 2:14 PM UTC
Yes, I am fat and these are my addictions-
You feed me too much of your love at all seasons
Your wisdom makes my mind bulging with lessons
I am too fat now, you know the reasons
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
seductive decay
on summer days we
rode down the river in our ripe age,
careless if the rapids swept us
into their deadly dustpans,
the black hole of water,
the possibility aroused us,
perhaps because it seemed so far away.
and next to the river,
the appalachian townsfolk wandered the deep grass, they
gathered here to see the circling folding-tables,
buy the spread of goods,
the goods are masks.
the masks are of old folks’ faces,
cartoon-like, goofy comic characters in the funny pages.
masks of rubbered wrinkles, permanent,
bulging eyes, whiskered ears that never stop growing, with
an elastic band, you can become an elder.
old age attracts the crowds,
i have a fascination with it myself,
picturing all the stories that have
taken elders to the present,
it’s hard to fake being wise
when you’re forced to think for years.
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
“T'was the night before Christmas ...”
and Santa was busy.
The reindeer were antsy
the elves in a tizzy.
The missus was tending
the ovens like mad
And turning out cookies
to make children glad.
The wood chips were flying
the sawdust was thick
The workshop was bulging
with toys from St. Nick.
Contractors from Sega,
Nintendo and Sony
Were working on games
(and a robotic pony).
Iphones and Ipads
(with virus removal)
Were packed in their boxes
and stamped "Elf Approval".
Last minute touches
were added with flair
While elf stylists tended
to Santa's white hair.
Elf tailors were making
some last alterations
To Santa's red coat
and his waist tribulations.
The weather was fair
as the weather-elf stated
The routes were approved
and departure was slated.
Bells had been polished
and harnesses buffed
While repairs were addressed
for the hoofs that were scuffed.
The antlers were festooned
with ribbons and bells
And the reindeer were covered
with elf flying spells.
The clock approached
midnight as Santa was seated.
The countdown began
as the flight crew was greeted.
H-hour neared
and the tension was growing.
Outside it grew cloudy
and then, began snowing.
But Santa just grinned
as the weather-elf winced.
"Don't worry, my friend.
Our time has commenced."
For the weather was nothing
to Santa's conveyance.
His reindeer and sleigh
were immune to"delay-ance".
With a whirl of his whiskers
and a flick of his wrist
The reindeer were launched
in a flash of white mist.
And I heard him exclaim
through his teleport ray:
"ALERT TSA. Tell 'em
I'm on my WAY!"
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 9:27 AM UTC
There's something with your flashing smile
And I just can't figure it out
Some sadness was hiding between your eyes
But I just can't seem to catch them all
Those bulging cheekbones, glowing bright
They contain some kind of mystery
They blur all the lines
What were you thinking?
How were you yesterday?
Why was I even asking?
It's something I can't put into words
But I just kept moving forward
Hoping someday you'll tell me
Your deepest thoughts and happiness.
Your mystery, it annoys me
It blocks my vision, I can't see
But I love them with all my heart
It's even fine with me if you'll stay
Just another mystery in my mind
Some misery that won't end
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 10:26 AM UTC
Bulging from your nutrition
My life suspended
Don’t let me go
I don’t want to be bruised
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 9:35 PM UTC
stranded in
the beauty of her throat shunted
her preference
a short drop
in a bulwark twisting knot
a hanged ghastly pendent
her feet arching desperately in search of a floor
they will never find
obedient!
yet
her face
a hideous insubordination
she dissolves like tropical butter
a screaming silence
a falling prayer
shuddering
with downward sloping limbs
she
blue
hemorrhaging
eyes wobbled
bulging to break into paradise
tumbling
like a dizzied cyclops
as numb lipped jutting howls
turn cement
always willing to help
he scums
for her
in pulsing heaves
of beatific gush
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 10:46 AM UTC
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
painting maples in hues of brilliant oranges and reds.
Long shadows of late September streak across the last blades of grass,
as fall’s stark contrasts light the afternoon.
The seasonal wind breathes cold with the smell of autumn in the air.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer,
while cottony clouds in a sea of cornflower blue, slowly slide out of view,
chased down by v’s of geese as they race across the sun.
Helicopter seeds line the sidewalks, green and gold, as others float on the wind,
down to join with cones and acorns awaiting next year’s crop.
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Crows, harbingers of the winter to come, make their sad calls.
Squirrels pause to pack their cheeks with Fall’s fare and scurry to secret caches,
their bulging cheeks filled with fallen nuts and acorns.
Fall greets me with a kiss as summer bows to its chill, as
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
I gulp down an Energy-Booster-X,
blue and sour.
Siri turns on Radiohead,
15 Step.
I step up to the pyramid of treadmills,
bouncing and salty.
Surrounded by Greek gods,
Beta, Alpha Gam, Pike.
I motivate myself by my surroundings,
bulging and ****
Cardio first and then core,
2 miles, 200 crunches.
I connect my sweat in a line down my shirt,
blotchy and stagnant.
Everyone stretches in the end,
Thighs, biceps, pecs aflame.
I will not stop until I am perfection,
beautiful and sculpted.
Alarm set again,
For 6:30am, 7:30pm
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 12:16 PM UTC
I can't believe I bought them.
Is this the top scoop?
I've entered a raffle for
pea & ham soup.
I can't even eat it,
I'm vegetarian you see.
Won't you just change it to
tomato for me?
I don't mind the peas,
It's the ham that's no good.
They slaughter those piggies
screaming, covered in blood.
Eyes bulging, their throats cut.
It's really not nice.
There's so much more to choose from,
not just cakes made of rice.
Have you seen how they nugget,
crispy goujons and breast?
They've found faeces and gristle
in a food safety test.
So don't think that these people
have your interests at best.
Look it up, do your research
and I'll give it a rest!
Poetry by Kaydee.
Sep 12, 2018
Sep 12, 2018 at 12:28 AM UTC
Fatima Latima
I had wished I had no gift of sight
That the worst I could endure is hear you speak
And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation
You may not be a thief
Nor **** daughter of the dayspring
But definitely my heart you stole
I speak of the daughter of Arabia
Aesthetically, she rocks
The queen of the pilgrim sands
And aeonian desert stones
Beyond the hijab
Artistically knead with consummate craft
Like the relics of Mecca
Blest by the prophet’s bones
The blessed
I see torches
Beaming with intelligence
Within those mascaras
Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant
A lulu class botany
She fixes a searching gaze
As she saunters close
And the stride and tread
Beats a drum entrancing
Soothed in her solacing spell
I give in, to her lullaby
She halts her perambulation
Stands magniloquent and stupefy
Like some pop diva magazine pose
Or Victorian secret shot
A tactical derangement of her gluteals
As she rests her palm in its cleft
I feel contractions, my dartos muscles
The blew of summertime
Gently beats her exceptional form
Her belt submerge her thigh crevice
Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat
Built by the dainties and delicacies
Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef
As her silken dress slithers and gowns
Under the breeze bulging and blooming
Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore
As she bends down
To assuage the burlesque
The sun specula lilts her sensational
Her smile apologetic bids me stillness
I am caught staring
Guzzling down her scent and
Feasting on empty imaginations
Of What If that accentuate the mind and
Speed a hormone
And I pray I sin no more
Next time we meet and I see her again
For I am but a writer
Learning to use my pen and paper
And hope you but forgive
My linguistic impotence
When I make my confession
Employing too plain a language
When I say thus;
Her smile is classical
Her walk magical
Her beauty celestial
Her stride sensational
Her religion ethical
Her character spotless
And that leaves me breathless
And forgive if I step on broken toe
And try speak of the unspoken
Her ****** is sacred
Her being a type that dresses up
In the milliards of brutes dressing down
And shamelessly style it fashion
I must see a priest
One confession I ought to utter
And even vociferate abroad
For once I had fallen in love
With an Arabian Beautie
A ****** of Mecca.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
her happiness is everything
her pathos; be kind with cruelty
blood and tears, a royal jelly
merciless kisses like blazing pyres
she cries through a night prayer
my push pin princess;
a crimson petal
nerves edge;
jutting ******* seeking cleavers kiss
to serve
to serve
to serve
smiling for a relish of wasps
she knows she is loved
a loved red faced surprise
**** mouth, red chirping sparrow
wax teeth melting
succubus, **** flower
gratefully crushed under foot
toes like musical notes
little pearl ruins
grave stones
whipped cream butter cookie in chains
stipule corridor
**** plume
serrations gush, a singing Dahlia
ripped rose, thorned and curt
plush flames
her skull a throat
her liturgy
weeping, licking gods bulging colossus
wakes her inside
giving her religion
sacrificed on a crucifix of *****
**** of heaven
a burning church possessed
drooling supplications
lustrous saliva web drapes trembling downward thighs
a glutinous chandelier
melts like silk around ankles
crystal silt on scorched heels
to serve
to serve
to serve
her happiness is everything
her pathos; be kind with cruelty
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 11:47 AM UTC
every night since Rosencrantz died,
I've had dreams about dead goldfish,
their silver and gold scales gleaming sickly
red roses of blood blooming from beneath them
dead and bulging eyes staring at me.
every day I come home to find
Guildenstern still swimming is a gift
but the goldfish are still dead in my dreams.
They are always there
and I never know why.
Their bodies are piling up.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
*By no means is this my work, I’m highlighting this in celebration for Black History Month
————————————————————————-——
Southern trees bear a strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.
Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to ****
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.
-Abel Meeropol
Feb 2, 2021
Feb 2, 2021 at 11:34 AM UTC
I
Opusculum paedagogum.
The pears are not viols,
Nudes or bottles.
They resemble nothing else.
II
They are yellow forms
Composed of curves
Bulging toward the base.
They are touched red.
III
Having curved outlines.
They are round
Tapering toward the top.
IV
In the way they are modelled
There are bits of blue.
A hard dry leaf hangs
From the stem.
V
The yellow glistens.
It glistens with various yellows,
Citrons, oranges and greens
Flowering over the skin.
The shadows of the pears
Are blobs on the green cloth.
The pears are not seen
As the observer wills.
5.6k
I dropped by my favorite place today, released another exhausted breath. My pants were bulging out and the fat kept me stretched out. I hate that feeling. My stomach turned into billowy waves of expectant marks, pinning through my outer skin. I hate that feeling. When I sit, my thigh provokes every nerve in my body. If she has thoughts, she'll be a demon whispering through the wind. My unkempt hair is spinning around like gravity does not exist. Somehow, I failed to sigh out the black smoke forming all over my body. My skin, when pinched, is like soft straps that cannot be withdrawn from their owner. My skin is like the skin of my ancestor—it keeps stretching widely, tirelessly, and unprovoked. My heart is tightening its grasp on me. God, please help me! My eyes! I swallowed all my tears away, but my reflection still reflects the dark hue of the moon. When it is sad, the moon exposes his true nature, just like rolled down skins on my neck. My hands go from gently holding my heart out of my chest to weighing the weight of my body. If I let out my thick heart, my body would be lighter and my skin would be a plethora of scars and clay. If I abandon thee and such a calloused body, art will find me beautiful, and that is one of the moon's other sides. It's thick and uncooked. The heavens may not forsake an insecure moon, but a woman hates her reflection when the moonlight lights on her flesh. "Mirror, mirror on the wall..." I called and they did not answer. I froze in my seat and waited until the sun bloomed and dried my tears. Yet I still could not breathe. I went into the sea and swam with the lonely whales. The sun reflected on the waters. I reached letter fourteen, but it was written by someone else. The ambience of the calm ocean washed over me. I released a breathy sigh, and the light went to take me.
Feb 1, 2022
Feb 1, 2022 at 1:28 PM UTC
Oh Adorable Zeus, hear Aphrodite’s petition to regain Adonis!
I, the goddess of love & beauty, will
Make sure to the fullest that no one can ****
The charming Adonis who makes me feel
Great beyond any ****** that’s real
Oh Adorable Zeus, hear Aphrodite’s petition to regain Adonis!
I, as the discoverer of this beautiful creature so rare
Is the first beholder of his countenance so fair
It is I who granted him the first unmatched care
The kind of caress he will acquire only in my lair
Oh Adorable Zeus, hear Aphrodite’s petition to regain Adonis!
His refuge in me never has the stench of death
It’s just like everyday he experiences rebirth
‘Coz there I can render him the greatest of health
Beauty & youth of flesh beyond any mirth
Oh Adorable Zeus, hear Aphrodite’s petition to regain Adonis!
Be vigilant towards the welfare of Adonis, my delight
His bulging muscles are proofs of his radiant might
So alluring to any mortal & immortal sight
No one can also equal his handsome face so bright
Oh Adorable Zeus, hear Aphrodite’s petition to regain Adonis!
That beauty of his can only be cherished
In my realm where beauty never goes blemished
The place that all mortals have ever wished
There the bright sun will keep his body nourished
Oh Adorable Zeus, hear Aphrodite’s petition to regain Adonis!
Adonis’ beauty is not fit for the home of the dead
He is so vibrant from foot to head
Remove him from Hades! To my haven, instead!
There he will be nourished by life-giving bread!
-02/10/2015
(Dumarao)
*Hopelessly Immortal Collection
Sep 21, 2019
Sep 21, 2019 at 9:52 PM UTC
Chubby Bellies
just what is the matter with matter that's dark
is it clandestine because it won't show it's face
but it seems to be everywhere that you look
especially if you look deep into space
the energy created is also quite dark
literally tearing gravity apart
I know this is really hard to explain
but won't you please have a look at my chart
if you look here at these many galaxy clusters
gravitational lensing is required to see
when you use the cosmic magnifying glass effect
there is a bulging middle to a large degree
more study is required they call it CLASH
cluster lensing and Supernova survey with Hubble
I gathered this info from space dot com
chubbie bellies creating this bubble
Morpheus aka Gomer LePoet
Sep 4, 2011
Sep 4, 2011 at 10:02 PM UTC
Sanguine
Choleric
Melancholic
Phlegmatic
Phlegmatic
Melancholic
Choleric
Sanguine
Blood oranges
And hibiscus tea
White wine
Carcrash memory
Hypertensive
He straps me down on the table
This is for my own good.
Too much blood they say,
Too much red wine too much liquid
Too much
My hand is swollen
My stomach distended
The vein in my forehead is bulging
Too much blood
A needle
A leech
A pen
Blood oranges
White wine
A needle is a leech is a pen
Is what the doctor ordered
He straps me to the desk
This is for my own good
A cure
Too much blood
Too much tea
Too many memories
Too many thoughts
Hypertensive
Sanguine
They say
They hand me the scalpel
And show me the line
Too much
I’ve had too too much red wine
To be doing this
A pen a leech a needle
A bucket of blood
A novel
Sanguine
Melancholic
Choleric
Phlegmatic
This is the cure
This is for my own good
Too much much blood
They hand me the pen
I’ve had too too many
Blood oranges
To be doing this
A scalpel is a pen
Is a leech is a needle
A bucket of blood is a novel
(Bleeding is the cure)
I bleed.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 2:58 PM UTC
Millions of tiny could-bes
Swim upstream in hope
That they might someday
Grow up to release
Their brothers and sisters
All over your face
In a gooey, sticky mess
That makes it on the internet
So that millions of other
Tiny could-bes
Can be freed from their
Bulging testicular prisons.
Aug 23, 2012
Aug 23, 2012 at 8:21 PM UTC