"corpulent" poems
my hands swelled
blue and purple
to match the
glassy doe-eyed
stagnancy.
I saw a pair
of cocoa
moon rocks
heavy with
music and a
queen bee trapped
in a flash
of departure.
mine and yours
one in the same
corpulent and
greased trembling
at the lips.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 4:38 PM UTC
Sliding fingers over alabaster shafts,
crevices and nooks catching at delving digits
as they seek between the ****** ***** of
remov-ed meat.
For before the bones the meat.
And before the meat the scalpel,
Running liquid through the tendrils
with its clever carv-ed lines in the
succulent,
decadent
dead.
The gore on the board.
Seen in rivulets of scarlet,
A tracery of cuts,
Multi-layered and exquisite.
I taste the smell of this corpulent finery.
Hands reaching into the layers,
slick with blood
pulling at the fat.
Sleek and deadly
I ply them, my tools.
For I am the butcher
And you will eat my meat.
Feast upon my carnage,
And leave me with the bones.
And leave me with the bones.
Feb 19, 2011
Feb 19, 2011 at 1:01 PM UTC
The caterpillar was raised by worms.
The worms loved the caterpillar,
But the worms didn't know much
About the caterpillar's nature.
They tried to understand,
And they tried to help as best they could,
But when the caterpillar got really hungry,
All they could understand was that
They had never been so hungry,
And they were happy,
And if the caterpillar wasn't careful,
He would become corpulent and fat.
So in their kind, ignorant, wormy way,
The wonderful worm family
Discouraged the caterpillar from eating too much,
And being too hungry.
The caterpillar was confused,
But he loved his worm family
So he tried his best to eat less and
Not get too hungry.
But the less the caterpillar ate,
The more hungry he got,
Until he was so starving,
He didn't even feel like himself.
He felt sad and sluggish and purposeless.
Then, in the middle of the night,
The caterpillar snuck up to he favourite leafy tree,
To just get a small midnight snack.
Before he knew it though, he had eaten
An entire branch of leaves.
And the caterpillar was still hungry.
He couldn't get enough.
He ate all through the night, and into the next day.
When his worm family awoke,
They saw the caterpillar up in the tree
Eating away.
They tried their best to get the caterpillar to stop,
But it was too late.
Soon with tears in their eyes,
The worms saw they're dear brother
Become sluggish and
Tired.
Until finally
The caterpillar wrapped himself up in a whitened
Casket, and hang motionless in a leafy
Grave.
The worm family mourned the loss of their beloved caterpillar brother,
And once again warned the other children about the dangers
Of being too hungry.
A few days later,
One of the wormy sisters went to visit her brother's grave.
But when she arrived she saw the most miraculous thing!
A butterfly was emerging from her brother's tomb.
The caterpillar-butterfly
Was not angry at the worms for trying to stop him from becoming a butterfly,
They didn't know he would be able to
Be a butterfly after all,
And they were just trying to keep the caterpillar from harm.
After the family had a beautiful reunion,
The butterfly flew away to somewhere
He could be hungry, and beautiful. And
Somewhere he could fly.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 10:43 PM UTC
where will they take me
this thick, whirling cloud
of birds?
I lower my shotgun;
my targets were to be
a skein of geese
(corpulent, impertinent
avian freaks I have seen
peck children's shins)
these smaller birds
perform a choreography electric,
black against blue
now I know the meandering
meaning of mesmerize--my eyes
glued to the skies
more agape than the hunter
in me--wishing to watch this wave
undulate an eternity
but alas, the flock turns
into a naked sun; I am forced
to shield my eyes
my hand blocks the blare
of light, with it, the whipping tail of
their liquid flight
when I lower it, they are
but a haze near the horizon, performing
magic for another audience
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 8:16 PM UTC
So you think you are a master of techniques of persuasion?
You shallow pips-squeak, mediocrity is your mastery
the obsequious hoi polloi that surround you are the pitiable averageness of conciliation
Sophistry and subterfuge are your game of compromised facts
syllogistic arithmetic conceptualizing doesn't make anything so
your addition is flawed by your bungled bombast of banality and guile
fortunately for you, your crowd will never study logic
fortunately for you semi-literacy is de rigueur
You pompous swollen grandiose mass of hyperbolic gas
Fear is what you offer, lies are what you sell
your rhetorical flourish is as the stench of a waste dump
fetid, corpulent, fallow and febrile
toxic
half-truths, innuendos, ambiguities, conjecture and asinine aspersions comprise your specious fare,
fostering rumours, manipulating facts, you are the purported Biblical brood of vipers so extensively reviled against
Your relevancy is attributable to the dull stupidity so profusely prevalent today
Your "success" is the stuff of taint and treachery
You'll probably choke to death on a stuck piece of poorly masticated flesh
so appropriate and befitting the demise of a professional liar
Apr 28, 2013
Apr 28, 2013 at 12:44 AM UTC
This is how I feel
Maybe that's not how I look
But this is how I feel
And that's whats important
May 2, 2015
May 2, 2015 at 8:32 PM UTC
Familiar grooves and caramel swells,
Fleshy masses and velvety, flecked skin
Of the body she hates and loves so well.
Trapped in this sole vessel in which she dwells,
Behind corpulent walls, she feels choked in.
Familiar grooves and caramel swells,
A warm and supple being, she compels
Herself to deface with hate. The scarring
Of the body she hates and loves so well.
Stare at the reflection, try to dispel
Scrutiny. She wants to embrace and grin.
Familiar grooves and caramel swells,
She knows her body’s deep and ***** spell,
Justifying gluttony, making sin
Of the body she hates and loves so well.
Gently caressing as she softly tells
Her fullness of forgiving and loving
Familiar grooves and caramel swells
Of the body she hates and loves so well.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 3:54 PM UTC
also morpheus, thou who art dusted leaves
tremulous portraits plaintive angels creaking
pinions, wasted paint clanging fatly unskinny
corpulent boughs spread deviously; rip carefully
sanity: a flagrant splendorous nymph hard arithmatic
chime softly a dull pepper in my head: mostly
cobwebs and fluff punished grinning skulls
my teeths are clean and the smooth hollow
of thoughts is a pillow budding dream
laid crinkled masterpiece and fill it morpheus
with your excellent meat
Nov 18, 2010
Nov 18, 2010 at 11:13 AM UTC
Let me go in the Dark
I want to be in there
In the space of corpulent, infectious glands
Swallowing innocence with labyrinthine hands
Let me be one with the Night
My home is over there
In a place of ubiquitous fears
And a plethora of basking tears
Let me soak in the abyss
The void is so near
A comely figure,
an evocative sadist and protégé
Dripping candle wax on me
in San Lorenzo, Paraguay
Let me walk among ghosts
In the Portal Del So hotel
Tossing back Xanax;
Vicodin with a liquor chaser
Gin and vermouth, *****
anything to forget her.
Let me wait in living purgatory
With other pods of skin
When the wind shakes the barley,
back home
Where a wife and son
never left me alone.
Let me go in the dark
Past the tortured guilt and sorrow
Where a family is made of flesh
and not ash
Where a house remains
and the fires don’t last
Let me cry and weep in silence
In a room with rotting drapes
A static-channel TV,
a two blade ceiling fan
People engulfed in one another,
A demon for a man
Let me shower in cold, thickening blood
Standing atop broken medicine cabinet glass
So many packs a day of cheap cigarettes
and loose women
None ease the pain
like the morphine in the kitchen.
Let me go into the chasm
The vein snake is thirsty.
I take a little more each time it feeds
But maybe not waking up
is what the snake needs
Let me sleep in the dark
While infomercials for prayer play
Juxtaposed to a zealous vagabond
and father
The last serpentine dosage
for a broken martyr
Let me go in the dark
Let me see them again
I’ll wait and watch the room shrink
And hope my eyes
never dilatorily blink.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
Holiday: a man backstrokes
oh so gently in the hotel pool.
It’s breakfast time. Bean juice
coagulates on my plate.
I watch the man’s languid, enchanting
backstroke and, for some reason,
it inflates my heart with sentimental joy.
This semi-corpulent middle-aged man,
is, right now,
The Most Beautiful Thing On Earth:
His arcing limbs do not slap or thrash,
but plop into the drink like skipping stones.
He is a babbling brook. A water feature.
The splish-splosh trickle-truckle of a spa waiting room.
And what’s more, this forty-something baldy
gliding through the water
fills me with love for all humanity,
because he seems blithely rapt
in absolute peace
(despite the room rates at this place).
But then, I realise, all of this might be
free association of the mind
linking this moment to a scene in
the Oscar winning motion picture:
Forrest Gump;
when a legless Lieutenant Dan
makes peace with God (for taking his legs),
and backstrokes with the same carefree beauty
into a pink and orange sunrise
(funny how the mind does that).
And suddenly the bubble of beauty is burst.
The portly swimmer becomes just that
(FYI: legs intact),
and my wife returns from the buffet
with a plate of vibrant fruit segments; Cheshire melon
and the greenest kiwi I’ve ever seen.
Lo! Only now have I tasted true kiwi.
And I remember: I’m on honeymoon!
And my wife, in this moment, and forever more,
shall be the only human to be known as:
The Most Beautiful Thing On Earth.
Similar to the way Forrest felt about Jenny,
in the Oscar winning motion picture:
Forrest Gump.
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 5:26 PM UTC
It's the smell. The smell of hundred-year-old
hardwood floors in this old school I recognize most,
floors grown thick and corpulent with untold layers
of pine-scented oil - floors darkened, smoothed
by the trample of children herded, then corralled
in dank stables down those long corridors. I also
remember the confinement I felt, pinned within
those stables, wanting nothing more than to run free,
with the wind of youth combing my untamed hair.
–
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 7:43 PM UTC
The lady's large legs
shuddered, spreading
-becoming broader-
as tears treaded
descending down
corpulent cheeks and chins
(like a rill running from
narrow eyes undulating upward)
She laughed... Oh joy!
this wonderful woman
seated shaking on her small stool
hardly holding in
chortles of cheer
palms on her plump potbelly
erupting with euphoria
as her heavy heart hurt heaving
boiling blood battling
plaque packed into
every artery to
locate luscious lips that laughed loving life.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
i was drinking orange ****** ***** with Kitty
the mushroom cloud destroyer,
my compatriot, my downfall
the sky was purple and the grass was red
and we plotted the end of the world
we fought for dominance i lost
sat on my street corner
stealing kisses from
passersby like a magpie,
plucking the shiny buttons off coats.
when I became the queen of sheba,
decked to the nines in brass buttons
confiscated corroded combustible
i rode an elephant called shiva the destroyer
and sliced long cuts with a sword into my legs
and the white scars were like hope.
i played backgammon and chess with multiple lovers
and they all lost because i was an impenetrable fortress.
I wore the red crown and stabbed out their hearts with my pointed teeth.
then i sat upon the edge of the world alone,
tore out the cores of a million and four sunflowers
and watched all of the people riding trains
and walking in the parks holding the hand of someone else
someone who isn’t cold Kitty
as the violet sun began to set
i dreamed of what someone else’s hand
bones skin muscle corpulent sinew warmth
and I slept like an obsidian stone.
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 6:58 PM UTC
There comes the golden trumpet
With its boorish tune.
It claims that brimstone is falling
From the heavens, threatening
To mar all that is pure and white.
All are spellbound by his naked words
Stripped from the usual ethereal facade.
Promise of prosperity rings in their ears,
Since the land of milk and honey has run dry.
But wait…
Look at the hunger in his eyes,
A fervent lust for power and glory.
Look at his thin skin, orange and tempered,
Burning like coal in a blazing furnace.
Look at the cohort he assembled,
Corpulent swine from the swamp.
Surely, he has the mob in mind.
Throw chocolate to keep them quiet.
Put on a show to divert attention.
For the truth is glaringly clear,
We have been played for fools.
When the smoke subsides…
A repentant dog with its tail between its legs, ears back, comes out of the rubble.
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 9:34 PM UTC
corpulent confused corruption did deceive every vacant stare with horrendous precision loosing strange muscles to oddly coil in deliquescent understanding; how ever this becoming became i shall not know for all my rigid conjecture; thus i surrender my accidental resemblance; especially : a visible sign of something invisible"
so did the metaphor roar
Apr 24, 2010
Apr 24, 2010 at 2:50 PM UTC
It is raised a corpulent Spirit,
dangling it legs suggestively,
over the abyss of national identity,
an ideological state apparatus, BANG!
Mind the gap of danger when boarding and alighting trains.
Mar 8, 2015
Mar 8, 2015 at 5:42 AM UTC
Surrender proceeds jingling bones
A path remained unfound
In it's place stands
No option but up
Or down, or any other way possible
Protection comes from
Ambiance; choked on the woes of wooing branches
What have they seen? Who will they touch?
What corpulent feelings protrude
From a vacant, verdant lung
How now will screams fall?
Like the buoyancy of oak, suckling
Syrup, sweet, from
Distressed veins of age
When air stands taller
Untruthful containers, thoughts swell
She never may know of her inevitable bliss
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 1:57 PM UTC
*Great Goddess
In fertile essence you were shaped
Upon your head
ambiguous braids were draped;
******* as mountains
Belly the great giver of life
Monthly cycle an ocher fountain
Created from ancestral strife
Venus of Willendorf
30,000 year old
Archetype Matron
of Mother Earth
Corpulent bestower
Of genesis and birth.*
- Amy Green
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 8:40 AM UTC
feet and eyes
these are all I use
to find my way
my ears have been open
hearing the drums in the nascent night
soon begging for morning light
for the sounds carry the solemn songs
of the slaughtered and enslaved
I have masterfully managed to evade
but
sometimes
their holy
imploring eyes
their maimed
sacred bodies
come into two dimensional view, and
I steal fleeting glances
but allow no chances for them
to take
human form
I let them lay
in the fallow fields
among the bones
where their epitaphs
are written by the wind
where their last gasps are heard
only by other famished wanderers
who like I had feet and eyes
but whose drums in the night
were not untold tales
of the forgotten, the forlorn, the wretched
but death chants
just beyond the horizon
just over the edge of my
blind corpulent world
where I could hear
their muted emaciated cries
yet not have to see
their holy and hollow, dying eyes
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC
Tripping.
Tripping,
Because…
Because society says so.
That’s why.
Tell me I’m wrong,
When…
You have war in the streets, but
I’m wrong to complain.
And you ridicule,
Free thinkers,
And you call them insane.
When you try to take liberties,
That are permanently engraved.
And sell us consumption;
****** abundance;
Utter redundant,
Dreams among us.
Marketing schemes,
Big budget dreams,
Jobs that disappear,
But,
Keep optimistic,
Don’t fear.
Take a trip in your nation,
Consumed with corpulent creatures,
Once known human,
Easily seen,
Wiping Big Mac sauce from their lips,
Clutching Old Navy Bags,
Drinking Starbucks coffees.
Little change do you receive,
From a store,
When it all goes on plastic.
What people don’t realize,
Is that credit,
Is misplaced poverty.
And people speaking their minds,
And making a difference,
Are treated with disrespect,
It’s humanities ignorance.
So next time,
You see a man on the street:
Playing a guitar;
Singing a song;
Painting a portrait;
Projecting a message;
Getting along.
Think this:
There are a lot of way to describe credit.
Only one for money.
You can want to make money.
Or you want to deserve credit.
It only depends on how, you
Think of that.
But one thing that’s always true,
Is the sound of change,
Hitting the inside of a cup.
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 11:57 PM UTC
It would be inaccurate, indeed downright unfair,
To label her as a convenience,
Certainly no matter of being any port in a storm;
She fell into that category of handsome women,
Tending more to the Rubenesque than the runway,
And those occasions where an evening with the gang
Fragmented into a somewhat unmatched set
Were more in line with settling into a familiar harbor,
Bereft of the intoxicating hazards of shoals and sand bars, perhaps,
But comfortable with a certain steadfastness about it,
A pleasant haven from the riptides, undertows,
And various entanglements of the open water.
It was an aneurysm that took her, the type of thing
We’d associated with grandparents, aged aunts,
Corpulent colleagues of our fathers.
What’s more, it turned she was staunchly and stubbornly Lutheran,
Regular to the point of obsession in her attendance at services
(We’d no way of knowing such a thing, of course,
The notion of staying overnight at her place
To rise from last night’s sheets at mid-morning
And share a table for omelettes and awkward chit-chat
Being both curious and curiosity)
So we arrayed ourselves in stiff collars,
Accompanied by ties we’d hoped to be suitable,
As the whole affair had us a bit off balance,
And we were only able to restore our equilibrium at the end,
Just in time to attempt to bounce pebbles onto her coffin lid
In what he hoped was some witticism in Morse code.
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 1:53 PM UTC
Weight
So heavy
Pile after pile of
Corpulent burdens
Massive amounts of
Stuff
Thought after thought
Thousands of miniscule pins
Poking
Prodding
Pounding
Relief?
It all comes down to
Just how well can I
Express myself
Too bad
My words never truly articulate my meaning
Too bad
My insides fizzle with rage at the slightest struggle
Too bad
No relief
Only me
Immobilzed
Bending
Crushed
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 1:49 AM UTC
Strident ~ I can be harsh
Uxorious ~ I am compliant with my wife
Corpulent ~ A bit too much for cycling well.
Kudos ~ I receive accolades occasionally
Sagacious ~ wise enough to know
I have nothing to complain
About
Because my life *****
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 8:39 PM UTC
the dew of some mornings is a thing which is not unlike the kind nuisance of my lady's graceless feeble miraculous fingers. who are not unlike the starting end of day where **** and silent and hulking quiet tremble viscous muscles
of pure unlight, teeming with wondrous gleaming follicles, pimpling the
evenings tummy lapped with luna's rapid fortunate tongue. the chittering
globs of arms waxing ferocious. in climbing steeply valleys feet middle in
strange streams. the common streams. the unerring crooked and corpulent streams. in there, between between, 1and1 (you and i) our ventricles beat
insatiably voluminous leaves. from trees of amorous fruit bearing fronds
slapping silence(whileWeBeneathThemIntoEachOthersMe'sDepositSlushyViteWeWeremore than god's unfound children returning into the cherished cherry red
steaming glue of our very and very clanGlorious howls repeatedly again angain andgain and gain: an earth wholly more to the liking of "which is not unlike us")
1
! I:,.
Apr 19, 2011
Apr 19, 2011 at 11:04 PM UTC
Voracious, ravenous, insatiable
Corpulent from your sweet
Munificent insatiable
Flesh
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 9:46 PM UTC