"chesty" poems
I walk the halls and glance at everyone I see,
The girls who are hurrying to the bathroom to fix their makeup,
And the boys who check them out as they walk by.
Is there anyone else here who can't go to the bathroom, because I swear to God just the thought of it gives me a small panic attack.
Is there anyone else here who looks down and is disappointed everyday because I am small, chesty and my face is far too round.
I never check out the girls, nor do I run to the bathroom to fix myself,
I walk and look at how much I wish I was one of the guys,
Flat chested, tall, lean and not having to wake up 5 extra minutes to put on a binder.
Never hating that their voice along with their round face will have others calling them "She" for their whole life.
Never will they come home with aching ribs,
and feel the stab of being misgendered.
Never will they be told "but you still look like a girl,"
Even though you are trying so hard that you feel your mind wearing thin.
Why can't I just be what they want me to be?
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
my bampa was a minergrafting down a piti recall his chesty cough black lumps in his spitdust of death for pittancelined a throat so dry filthy lungs but clean heartwith love you cannot buytwelve hours down a holetin tub for a bathprepared with love and care nan placed by the hearthbraving winds and weatherto reach the outside loousing daily newspaperto wipe away the pooso sometimes when i'm downand life gets on my **** remember bampa's life...andwhere he worked, washed, and ****
Feb 27, 2010
Feb 27, 2010 at 1:17 AM UTC
I have left, pig-mudding drunk,
having sipped from stock to stock on fraying cheer, stages.
I have stood in foreign basements; sweaty cellars of youth;
begot by attitude breeding spaces of the hip;
drawn circles searching for love in recreating nonsense:
a silly pupil, moon-eyed, out of breathe.
I have heard them quack, reveal their cords;
heard them whisper a thousand and one secrets,
heard them deconstruct their circumstances as pilgrims, penniless and sick.
I have their memories now, an image of a depressed,
ass-imprinted pillow soaked in liquor and a feeling of nausea
where ribs sleep on this couch tonight, every night.
I have heard one refute the weight of living, ******
on the banks of his best friends hospitality, and thought
How much is it worth?
And I have envied every **** greasy pored hipster,
the ones fixing on makingitnew now kind of clan; stared blankly at fashion,
a culture back door where pink fish scales sparkle high from runway halters
to the tops of grown men, bearded and chesty.
And your mothers pearls sit, not your mother’s pearls but your mother’s, mother’s pearls,
that old world clout ornamented around those hairy *******
Oh yes, I have seen men become peacocks, charmed animals of **********
seen them teeth at discourse in the noise they create, wide-mouthed and pointed;
I have seen them masked like frantic felines: wooly bully cats trying-to-roll their own meter,
their tobacco stained black charcoal over soft bricked lips quiver to their beats:
those painted lemmingings, without a parachute: kamikaze felons.
I have desired absolute sterility: white china,
in the egg of a toilet bowl I spewed out, shut-up my exuberance for the night;
sorry-pleaded my resolutions to gag out the naughty nouns in my life.
I have quit; turned in my lust for performing the lioness, paw-licking,
snarly creature: the predator of my youth, and now,
I am pretty-headed, tamed in bath oils and schedules;
a spotted fox, in plain view, one medium-sized mammal getting by.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 5:05 PM UTC
I saw someone, two grades older than me in the halls with a purple shirt.
He was tall and had a huge grin and a loud laugh.
I heard the boy in the purple shirt had an B in Spanish
And a D in chemistry
And an A in foreplay.
I thought maybe he's had more than one girlfriend in the past few weeks.
At school he tells me he likes my shirt. Then turns around and tells another girl he likes her ***
I realized then I wanted to be him. Because the girl was probably going to **** him, and not me.
What does he have that I don't.
Chin fuzz, a reverberating voice, broad shoulders, a ****
That night I did one hundred push ups. That night I cried for one hundred minutes.
And slept for what seemed like one hundred hours.
When my morning comes my chest aches. When my morning comes my chest is still chesty.
When his morning comes his chest is occupied by a girl's head.
When his morning comes he let's go of a morning *** on his purple shirt.
On his purple sheets.
On the girl's purple cheeks.
He remembers someone, she is two grades younger than him.
She is small and has sad lips and a quiet sigh.
She has an F in math, and an F in history, and an F in foreplay.
He told her he liked her shirt, because he really did, because it wasn't purple, because it wasn't his, because it made her look strong. It made her look like a man. He then realized that he liked the color blue better, and liked the way it looked on her.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
A selection of limericks
There was a young lass from the Bronx
Whose ******* make fearful honks
She sounds like a car
When she puts on a bra
And the geese gather round when she bonks
-----------------
Father Alexander McMackett
Ran a ruthless religious racket
When taking collection
He'd offer protection
Salvation could cost you a packet
-----------------
A carrot named Archibald Nation
Had feathers in high numeration
He was labelled as veg
By a grocer called Reg
With a dubious qualification
-----------------
A sculptor named Arnold Duprees
Carved a **** plug from parmesan cheese
He lamented his luck
When it melted and stuck
But he fired it out with a sneeze
-----------------
Knights in the armour of old
Have little to keep out the cold
For they dress as the Scots
In thier tenderest spots
Which encourages rust and then mould
-----------------
Oh ***** you make my knees quiver
You chemical lethargy giver
You tickle my tongue
And pickle my brain
Then you jump up and down on my liver
-----------------
A Fella named Ricky De Gaul
Had seventeen ******* in all
They called him De Chesty
But with only one *****
It should have been Ricky De Ball
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
Shiny black spit-shined shoes
on the walk
in the Memorial Gardens
hurt my feet
to look at their stiffness
and his swollen ankles
in them.
His worn and creased pants
too short, belt buckle aligned
dress-right-dress
with the button fold of his shirt.
He wore
an old faded USMC campaign hat
pulled down
almost to his white eyebrows.
Almost comically.
I pitied him
in the way we sometimes do
the old who mumble,
never knowing
just who they are talking to.
I heard Inchon mentioned,
and Chosin a time or two,
and every time he said *Puller knew,
yeah, Chesty knew*.
I quit taking my lunch
with a book in the Garden
when he stopped coming around
and after I saw his picture
in the obituaries
with a description of how he won
his Silver Star and two Purple Hearts;
wishing now I had listened closer.
More’s the pity
I never spoke to him.
r ~ 6/27/14
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
A chestnut falls from a chestnut tree. It falls onto the chest or knee of the free.
Please, awaken to the sight for sore eyes. Sounds nice! Beautiful chesty women all around in the night.
Quite the light we got lit for our cigarette. Yet, the Winchester's barrel, bangs a different drum-set.
Best we forget the fright.
Master the art of illusions. Assuming delusions that give birth to contusions.
So, this poem is cheesy, cause Chester the Cheetah thinks so? Do YOU know?
Blow it.
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC
Oh my my, this Facebook thing,
has a world of trouble it can easily bring.
Long, meaningless chatting, a cyber-fling,
And it only began from a new chat box ding.
The one thing you must at all costs avoid doing,
Is basing opinions on these girls, then actually pursuing.
As you tell her you’re interested, her brain will cook.
“He’s into my heart! Not that picture I took!”
The one that she uses as her seductive hook;
but as most cases play out, this is not how she'll look.
You can try and deny this, but proof lies in plain sight.
There are some exceptions, but mostly, I’m right.
A long legged appearance, instead has a midgets height,
and oh goodness, those rolls! Her "abs" looked so tight.
Well, at least she is chesty, there is no faking there!
But her best friends a water bra, life just isn’t fair.
You meet up and they’ve shrunk? Can’t help but stare.
And her clear complexion has changed? She has acne to spare.
So provocatively she chats, you can't resist, so compelling.
But just remain unresponsive, asleep, and safe in your dwelling.
Is she hot or bad-looking? Well there’s no way of telling.
But she won’t look nearly as good, trying to save you from yelling.
So I hope you get my message, best to stay away from that game,
But I am assuming you won’t, teenage flirtation is impossible to tame.
I can only offer this advice, hoping it will keep you ridden of shame.
For as of now, if she tricks you, you have only yourself to blame.
Nov 1, 2011
Nov 1, 2011 at 5:54 AM UTC
The Many Words For Miracle
What are the synonyms for miracle?
There must be myriads:
Wonder, mystery and marvel;
Anything above the normal.
Unexplainable, for I was sick: tired, coughing, chesty,
Energy-less,
Had to rest.
That was just yesterday
And three days prior.
Three days later - now
There’s power.
By this hour, I’ve
Washed a rug on hands and knees,
De-branched two trees,
Wrote verse
Washed *******
Socks, a jersey,
Trimmed the roses, bushes pruned,
Going strong, I’m strong - in tune.
Recovery, and I’m a-goggle!
Miracle is what that was!
Silent, gosh darned and mind-boggling
Miracle - and have I mentioned
That I’m grateful
For the days.
Of well-intentioned
Destiny?
So many words for thankful.
The Many Words For Miracle 10.22.2014 revised 7.28.2016
Nature Of & In Reality; Revelations Big & Small;
Arlene Corwin
Jul 28, 2016
Jul 28, 2016 at 5:25 PM UTC
In mornings unwoken
A turn toward the sleeper
And presentations to eyes that will not open
Nor see to the chesty howling
Nor a smile shared on skin and other spaces
Tied to the arms moving violations
And subliminals creeping upon you through slats of sunlight and shaking eyelashes.
Dust that’s formed in the folding where the nose shades seep into blood vessels store the dreams nodding at coming days.
Bullet holes admired by tourists, defunct airports admired by tourists and the flashing bulbs which used to carry them away,
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
Thought you weren't
going to come
Helen said
she stood by Baldy's
grocer shop
her thick lens glasses
were smeared
by recent rain
her plaited hair matted
had chores to do
at home
you said
you looked at the sky
guess you got caught
in the last downfall
you said
she nodded
brushing raindrops
off her green raincoat
with her small hands
then wiped
her smeary glasses
with damp fingers
where are we going?
she asked
you looked at her
standing there
her wet features
and clothes
raindrops falling
from her nose
best go back
to your place
to get out
of your wet clothes
you said
don't matter
she said
it does
you said
you'll catch a death
she looked at you
I’ll dry
she said
no
you said
best go home
your mother
will let you changed
out of the wet things
while I wait
she pulled a face
OK
she said
so you both walked back
to her place
she talked
of her mother's
chesty cough
and you talked
of the silver looking
6 shooter
your old man
picked up
at some junk shop
once you got
to her home
her mother moaned
but let her changed
out of the wet clothes
and said to you
want a cuppa?
sure
you said
and so she poured you
a mug of tea
and a biscuit
and after while
she ironed some clothes
she asked about
your mother and her legs
and if
they were any better
no
you said
they' re just as bad
the tea was sweet
and milky
but you drank it
and nibbled the biscuit
and watched her iron
her plump hands
at work
her huge bust
swaying
to her motion
then Helen
came into the room
in dry clothes
her hair unplaited
and hanging
in long strands
you look
like a drowned rat
her mother said
I should wait here
if I were you
until the rain stops
Helen looked at you
then at her mother
ok
she said
I can show Benedict
my doll collection
you smiled
it could be worse
you thought
drinking your sweet tea
worse things
could happen to me.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
*If you get close enough to me,
I will describe you in poesies.
And You're most likely to see,
Your pretty name in my poetry.
Because darling I am the rhyme,
That finds your sweetness in each line.
I hope these verses softens your eyes,
To distinguish the truth from pretty lies.
In love you always get your hopes high,
Every summer you end up with a different guy.
You're desperate to fall in love,
Like every sixty old teenage girl.
Now you date a guy with a boxing glove,
Who has muscles and a six-pack abs.
I hate to spoil it for you,
But this **** ain't gonna last.
You are not on trial to be judged;
You already punishing yourself too much.
You're crying on napkins,
Saying that **** always happens.
Thanks God,you have a bestie,
To lean your head on her chesty.
Before you open your mouth,
Honey just hear me out,
I am a little ***** writer.
Like a Poetry Officer,
Everything you do or say,
May be used against you,
In a story or two.*
Stef Devid Alexandru ©
Sep 27, 2016
Sep 27, 2016 at 11:45 AM UTC
Murky passages.
Damp, all consuming.
Silence falls, with it's dismal veil complete.
A black velvet cloak.
Mysterious fingers rip at the night.
Dense air, clogged bronchi.
Struggles to extract breath from the atmosphere.
A ghastly wheeze and crackles as the last breath left.
(c) Livvi
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
reading does, the radio plays
hymnals, sacred sleeping music.
investigated, is it tickly, chesty,
do you seek production,
yes just look how much it costs now,
no, not if you are driving, this one
will not make you drowsy.
neither will you get the top off,
it is 100 percent proofed.
i looked for pins, 20 p a bunch,
a better deal for fixing things,
nicely.
sbm.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
You are going to fall
Brace your self to brawl
For your destiny
Exhausting your chesty
And living off
Each breath as if
The next were not guaranteed
Because this is the seed
Life grew from
A stenciled conundrum
Found in fellowship of a bee
And flowers reigning free
Where wind and sail
Chart the way askew the frail
You are going to fall
And you will want to crawl
And scout for crumbs
Until the knee bends and becomes
The servant of tribulation
Bowing to the puppeteers' constitution
Torn from self
You decorate the shelf
With accolades past and present
Idolizing the image you rent
From a faceless Lord
Who hands you the cord
To dangle your corpse
All in benevolence
Of pampering the collective consciousness
Filling the emptiness
With gurus, trinkets and wealth
Anything but the breath
That keeps alive
The entire hive
From a single exhale
That keeps a greeny dale
To the heart that beats once
Giving you one last chance
One last glance
At the ball of fire
A tapestry of ancient Maya.
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 10:15 AM UTC
From the great dust bowl of infinity, birth sat ready on the lip of time,
no not I , until the grill of sun made its home in the chesty melt of crystal dust come hither from the rip of a burning blue azzure,torn thru the fabric of universal skin I bled my bounty dry and pressed my eye to the moons harrow , face frozen to the light of mystical embrace, beatified to the pallet of eternal bleed upon the gallop of thought chasing memory to the seed, stood foreign on the freeway of emotion
Sep 5, 2020
Sep 5, 2020 at 11:57 AM UTC
Ode to a Cough
😷
Ahem!
Oh cough, that small expression of relief
an echo of congestion in the throat.
A hack, ahem, that passes through our teeth
Emotion swells a lump that I may choke.
What calls thy siren to my attention?
A blockage thus, of phlegm, a chesty rasp,
or narrowing of passage void of breath.
The air about you holds itself agasp
I fear you are brought into contention
and brought about a certain kind of dearth.
A cuckoo lays an egg within your nest
and harbours you a master of disguise.
You tickle and tease, leaving me to guess
the nature of your lyrical reprise
To fear or not I ask you to discern.
They flee, they flee, at what you may become.
Such power, I can only show respect,
lying low, to elude your stealthy roam.
Who are thee to show such little concern,
to all the lives you wittingly infect?
Your path floats on an air of discernment,
moving forward a mutant in our midst
that begs me to doff my hat, your servant
and smell the poisoned scent that you have kissed.
Are you thus a never-ending terror?
What distance do you give for me to make?
Will your repertoire ever be enough?
The future holds such chances there to take.
I cannot hide my face from you forever
because sometimes we cough, sometimes we cough.
May 8, 2020
May 8, 2020 at 4:09 AM UTC
When the time comes
That my heart no longer beats
my bones will rattle in a wooden cage
And my soul will still scream
I was once a Marine
If life takes me down dark roads
Or if I climb the highest hills
If I'm rich or I'm poor
I will still remember deep within
I was once a Marine
To Tun Tavern
And to Basilone
To Chesty To Smedley
To Mattis and the EGA
To the halls of Montezuma
To the shores of Tripoli
If for twenty or only four
It is still the birthday of our corps
To 247 I will toast and say
Raise hell and semper Fi
Do or die. For once a Marine.
Always a Marine.
Nov 10, 2022
Nov 10, 2022 at 1:08 PM UTC