"fuzz" poems
i like my body when it is with your
body. It is so quite new a thing.
Muscles better and nerves more.
i like your body. i like what it does,
i like its hows. i like to feel the spine
of your body and its bones,and the trembling
-firm-smooth ness and which i will
again and again and again
kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,
i like, slowly stroking the,shocking fuzz
of your electric furr,and what-is-it comes
over parting flesh….And eyes big love-crumbs,
and possibly i like the thrill
of under me you so quite new
585.7k
With my whole body I taste these peaches,
I touch them and smell them. Who speaks?
I absorb them as the Angevine
Absorbs Anjou. I see them as a lover sees,
As a young lover sees the first buds of spring
And as the black Spaniard plays his guitar.
Who speaks? But it must be that I,
That animal, that Russian, that exile, for whom
The bells of the chapel pullulate sounds at
Heart. The peaches are large and round,
Ah! and red; and they have peach fuzz, ah!
They are full of juice and the skin is soft.
They are full of the colors of my village
And of fair weather, summer, dew, peace.
The room is quiet where they are.
The windows are open. The sunlight fills
The curtains. Even the drifting of the curtains,
Slight as it is, disturbs me. I did not know
That such ferocities could tear
One self from another, as these peaches do.
35.2k
mirrored fly-glass
and polished chrome
are tinted
in the blood orange dawn
running dogs of lummi
hush quiet
on this celestial
summer morn
clubman bars
and tan saddles
strapped to
the lowered hind
skull caps
and fitted chaps
for the open flow
and rich peripheral scene
concessions at the peace arch
(from the blue-coat fuzz)
black *****
and maples
cake the bow hill
and chuckanut
choppers launch
at edison
(with their metal fleck
and tuft)
a half moon rises
on the concho
and interstellar cross
cinnamon gulls
and ravens
scour the netted docks
warlock driftwood
and row homes
spot the winding
coastal roads
rumbling sounds
at the packer slew ~
with the redolence
of briny bay
alive
on the overlook
at fairhaven
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 5:55 PM UTC
I'm a rocker who likes country
But lately what I find
is that whatever I am hearing
turns to foggy mountain breakdown
in my mind
I listen to Nirvana
And I love to hear it fuzz
But right now Dave Grohl's music
has got foggy mountain breakdown
kind of buzz
Someone saved my life tonight
Elton, don't you know
That right now when I hear it
it's got a foggy mountain breakdown
old banjo
Rock and Roll forever
That's always been my line
But now it doesn't matter
there's a foggy mountain breakdown
it sure don't sound like Motown
there's a foggy mountain breakdown
in my mind
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 4:57 PM UTC
You say, "Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”
but I say surely something
must taste nicer than the burning acid
being forced back up your throat.
Why not hug people instead of
toilet bowls? At least they’ll hug back.
Except Mia is your only friend now.
And her cousin, Ana, of course.
And I understand that you never
wanted to die, but this is a thousand ton truck
hurtling towards the edge of a cliff and
Ana took the wheel a long time ago.
There is no strength in this: in you, in a
fear of calories. Even your bones creak
as your muscles sigh with exhaustion -
for this, is not a war you're winning.
This is a battle with only one contender
and I will not be the one to disarm you.
That's your job and it always has been. I know
you only wanted to be beautiful
like all those stars in the magazines
you saved under a file titled ‘thinspo’
but the only stars you ever saw were in
your eyes from the dizziness
and to tell you the truth, you are not pretty.
For there is nothing “pretty”
about the layer of fuzz your body grew
to protect itself from the big bad wolf
when really, the only growl was coming
from inside your stomach.
Or how your little sister is afraid to touch,
let alone hug you, in fear of snapping you in two.
For there is no glamour in having to
remove clumps of hair out of the plughole
at least six times whilst having a shower,
just to let the water run down.
Or that one time you "accidentally”
took too many laxatives. Messy.
There is nothing admirable about the way
you sat shivering on your bed
at night instead of kissing boys,
or dancing, or eating ice cream.
There is nothing to be marvelled at
in dying.
This, is not a life to be lived.
God, this isn't even a life.
This is being a slave to your own body,
a walking zombie, a ghost stuck
between two sides.
You are not alive.
But it was all still worth it, right?
Slowly killing yourself from the inside out.
A small price to pay for perfection,
a bargain for a broken mirror;
for a half-written book
with 97 blank pages,
a camera
that only captures in black and white,
a clock
with frozen hands.
And most importantly, for a peace of mind
you never received.
No refunds.
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
Woke up this mornin'
Barely knew where I was.
Woke up this mornin'
Still feelin' a buzz.
Woke up this mornin'
Mouth tasted like fuzz.
What day's it today?
Don't nobody know.
What day's it today?
Do I got some place ta go?
What day's it today?
Jumped up and stubbed my toe.
It's Monday mornin'!
I got an achin' head.
It's Monday mornin'!
I want ta stay in bed.
It's Monday mornin'!
I'm wishin' I was dead.
I got the Monday mornin' blues
Not the day I'd choose!
Got the Monday mornin' blues
Wishin' I had me some *****
In da game a life, I AWAYS, always lose!
The Monday mornin' blues
Got da blues!
Da Monday mornin' blues
Blues blues blues
The Monday mornin' bluuuuessss. . .
GOT DA BLUES!
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
Lost to backdrops scrolling past,
She sits knitting
in the carriage of a train.
The vague needles
They scintillate and glimpse
With the cadence of the wheels –
Upbeating ceaselessly.
Strips of tiny loops
And eyelets like dewdrops
Of condensation
Grouped on the superior rim.
Once in a while,
She gives a heave
To loosen more yarn from the skein
Of Filipino-made wool,
brushed worsted weave.
Spun and carded
from the richest fleece,
Deeper in the wicker basket by her feet.
The needles flash,
With ancient rhythms and attack
Of duellists in their chainmail coats.
With little hesitation she can tack
From plain to purl to blackberry.
Count back by rote or slip a stitch
While the fish-eyed gimlets gleam.
All gather profusely in her lap,
As windfall trove, rich-patterned
And warm with peach-fuzz nap,
All crafted from a single line of yarn.
Marvels fall continuously from wise
Spell-binding hands and all is well for now.
(9/11/13 @xirlleelang)
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
Now, what the hell has just happened to me?!,
I went to sleep and felt quite human,
Alarm goes off, opened my eyes to see,
Two mounds where my little chest should be.
My ****** armpits have just sprouted some fuzz,
There's some hair where my lady garden was,
My beautiful blonde hair is all goopy and limp,
And my face has a likeness to a spotty chimp.
When i went to bed last night, i loved my dear mother,
Now, the thought of a cuddle makes me run and take cover,
Ant lanky Jimmy Owens used to repulse me, no end,
But now all i want is to be his girlfriend?!,
I suppose i will need to start wearing a bra,
And i'll have to smile through the taunts from grandma,
And my father will watch every move that i make,
And i'll have to conform, for my sanity's sake.
Well, tonight, when i lay down my spotty wee head,
I'll lie here and wait for the morning, with dread,
All these transformations, all yuk and all grease,
O lord, will i make it through in one piece?!.
c eileen mcgreevy 2009
Nov 20, 2009
Nov 20, 2009 at 5:50 AM UTC
I want to feel your lips
Between the crevice of my breast
I want you to lay me down
And pluck my clothes
Like petals of a flower
I want you to run your fingers through my hair
And make me sing like a harp
I want to be held so tight I can barely breath
Pull me in your arms and wear me like your favorite sweater
Let me keep you warm
When the world is cold
I can be your mittens so your hands are never cold
The socks you put on everyday for work
So you never get cold feet
I want you to kiss me so gently and so hard you make my mind turn to fuzz
Static
Numb and everlasting
Pull my hair to wake me from my sleep
Wrap your hand around my throat when you put your tongue in my mouth
Wipe my tears when I cry cause sometimes it's too much
But not enough
I can never have enough of you
Of this
The sparks that shock me everytime you touch me
The hips you pull to get every inch
The breast you grab to make me sing
The face you caress to gain your power
And that spot between my thighs that leaks of honey
And sometimes your milk
Give me it all
Hold me down
Pull me close
Treat me well
Make me yours
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 5:01 PM UTC
Silly, silly, silly me.
To think I'm free, and that I'll be somebody?
Silly, silly, silly me.
You can't be free, and that's just it,
All you are is 'somebody.'
Some-body.
"Some body."
But that's not true!
Look at Trostky and Lenin,
Michael Myers and Lennon,
The other Lennon.
It's hard to differentiate in name and legacy,
Because both Lennon's were revolutionaries,
Marching around like the freshman from heaven.
But neither believed they were the result of divine intervention in the affairs of man,
Because this convention would threaten their worldview and beckon away their sanity...
In the same way that the Pope or ****** let their divine vanity commit greater blasphemy and bring them future agony.
Now neither Lennon nor Lenin came anywhere close to being men from Galilee,
In fact they were more the men of the galaxy,
Or at least, John was, with his peach fuzz beard and his belief that love is greater than fear.
The other Lenin implemented the New Economic Policy, to starve the proletariat and start his revolution on an already hypocritical trend that would continue quite the same until the very end.
And it proves something, does it not?
Violence sends a message to no one but the instigator,
Changing them to justify, and claim is wasn't misbehavior;
But that's a lie, no idea of mine is worth the death of a human mind,
And to pretend otherwise makes one delude themselves that they aren't an instigator, but an illustrator,
Painting in the blood as if ****** makes an innovator.
And for ****** there is no vindicator,
Violence is an image breaker,
Indulged in by poor imitators who think they're right, and the world is wrong.
Unaware this makes them weak, not strong.
Now John Lennon was the true revolutionary;
Although he succumbed to violence, he veered away from it, even when it was necessary.
He fought the war, and yes, the war did win,
But at least he didn't cover his scars with artificial skin,
Or deny his implicit wrongs as a result of all original sin.
John Lennon used the word 'nigger' to the opposite effect.
He used the word to trigger something bigger and correct,
The wrong that seemed so propagated by the last colonial tide,
Of which the other Lenin defected and took colonialism's side.
John Lennon was Utopian and told us of a better world;
He interjected definition, and caused old thoughts to curl away in fright,
And bite the dust despite their might and past dominion of industrialism,
It was a schism, and it still plagues us to this day.
John Lennon understood we over-complicate way
To
Often.
Silly, silly, silly me.
To think I'm free, and that I'll be somebody?
Silly, silly, silly me.
You can't be free, and that's just it,
All you are is 'somebody.'
Some-body.
"Some body."
"Some body" is something,
And some body can change the world.
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 1:34 PM UTC
1405
Bees are Black, with Gilt Surcingles—
Buccaneers of Buzz.
Ride abroad in ostentation
And subsist on Fuzz.
Fuzz ordained—not Fuzz contingent—
Marrows of the Hill.
Jugs—a Universe’s fracture
Could not jar or spill.
5.1k
Go out to the tarmac shove a pig into dirt
Listen to the squeal make sure it hurt
Hogtie'em smack'em on the *** into the van
collect'em off the street and can them in the tan
Ford Transit then we off to the chop shop
The ****** butchers gonna cut some cop
Drag them up feet first arms tied to the side
Hang em up to dry over a reservoir for the gore
Cut the cartery artery while they cry no more
Whats it all for, whats it all for, a long pig cookout
A hairless goat bled out now its time to get guts out
Bleed slows to a drip time to take a head simply twist
Off it comes like pop easy as a ******* croptop
Get your blade nice and sharpish cuz next on the list
Is skinning a cop shave off fuzz into the slop
Then drag a knife from the plexus to the ****
Tie off the **** and yank the excess its painless
**** up and you can try again pick another off the herd
Cut up again and again plenty of pork to slaughter
Almost ready for the grill party just gotta get meat ready
Detach arms, halve and quarter, keep your hands steady
Time to get out the coriander and chili powder
Hammer with a tenderizer on the counter
Cuts of steaks without any guilt, all free range
As I bite into a roast I make a toast to my rage
That made this deranged cookout, pig liver on toast
With some grits and cornbread as the feds approach
Hundred cops'll will roll on the grillmaster
Hundred shots out swiss cheesed by the ********
Read in the paper a monster cop killer
Killed for fighting the terror with terror
Jun 24, 2020
Jun 24, 2020 at 11:12 PM UTC
It smells vaguely of pizza
And there’s a little white fuzz floating around in the air,
I’m rewriting memories and helping a friend through a break up.
I’m sitting on my back staircase alone at night with no substance to keep me company,
Remembering a time sitting here with my ex having wine while he smoked a cigarette feeling relative peace and romanticism.
Now I’m contemplating the roughness of the stucco walls and the wrot iron and staircase and window cages,
The exceptionally uncomfortable and bumpy stair steps, all of the tangible visual interest around me,
Maybe falling in love with it,
It doesn’t notice me or maybe
Maybe it does, maybe it feels my weight,
Knows my smell,
Oh my god maybe these walls remember that moment that I’m thinking of!
Maybe they know all of it and they support me,
Maybe the me that was then and the he that was then is sitting here too just below me,
Letting the me that is now observe the sweet, pervasive sickness that we were lying in.
The pizza smell has wafted away and so has the little fuzz,
The wrot iron staircase feels okay against my head,
The angles that I’m looking down on feel unique to me, my frame of vision, is just for me.
He lived here, he bothered me, he smoked on this staircase nearly every night.
But maybe these steps and this material around me knew it was not his,
Maybe he never saw the stairs at this angle, maybe they never showed him their magic or their comfort or their mood or their simple, simple majesty.
Falling in love with a staircase and with the shadows that it kept secret for me.
Divine, it’s all divine.
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 11:21 PM UTC
the cherry blossom accord/equation
”perfumers use aromachemicals to recreate a cherry blossom accord...(an accord is a scent made up of individual aromachemicals, that when combined, create a harmonious blend where none of the individual ingredients are able to be detected on their own).”
the odor of our lustful eyes,
the sweat, a unique commingling,
a sheen of salted oils body bathing,
crushed green petals of peaches,
crumbled together with the softy fuzz shavings,
the sediment of aromatic fruit juices drippings
our blending bottled in our brains,
none other would recognize but we,
to too two smell each other through and over
floors, concourses, cities, disparate distances
our ingredients secreted (secret),
our flavors cell secreted (secreting)
the world’s silly tittering aroma inserted,
our sparking fingertips touching
add a bush burning burnt odiferous
we seat across from each other in an airport
plastic restaraunt and everyone asks out loudly,
what is that smell, feed me that, taste me that,
as we are irradiating the atmosphere,
as we renegotiate our cherry blossom accord,
fresh signatures, updated, harmony of harmonies, notarized
she smiles, I joke, winking,
we must continue
to meet like this,
the fireworks of we,
of us,
to-gather to-gether,
a getting of giving,
she answers:
*take me home and
bathe me in love,
give our bodies shelter
from the world outside,
beside a new spice
have I uncovered,
this will require some
discussion+exploration,
the quantity to be added,
the when, and the how!*
what is this new ingredient?
asking puzzled and aroused,
she laughs
(a spice already included),
why it’s called
only love poetry
8/23/19 4:55pm
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 5:06 PM UTC
The smell of fresh cut grass that you have mowed
A lollipop with flavor painful, ****
The signal traffic has to let you go
A thumb on men who give plants great kick-starts
The middle of a rainbow, warm and cold
A long square with fuzz on a table for pool
The mark on the root of all evil that's sold
A moss-covered abandoned private school
The things you see once trekking through the woods
A pond lies ankle-high within this place
The bits of algae below where you stood
A frog that jumps in front of your shocked face
There still are many things we've not yet seen
Pertaining to the wonderful color green
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
To all who come to
this happy placenta, welcome.
Disneyland is your lane.
Here, agency relives fond menageries
of the pastiche,
and here yo-yos may savor
the chamber and promoter
of the fuzz.
Disneyland is dedicated to the identification,
the dregs,
and the hard factors
that have created America... with hope that it will be a source of jubilation
and installment
to all the wormhole.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 7:48 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
Pumpkin spice and apples
Tease my nostrils as
The fuzz on my sweatshirt
Tickles my cold skin
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
I drop my pencil under a guy's chair and my friend convinces me to ask him for it back because "he's nice I promise" so I work up the courage to call his name as loud as I dare and I just start talking so I can tell him what happened before I lose my nerve, but halfway through I notice he's not listening at all and instead of asking for my pencil I ask him to ignore me. He does.
I met a boy and he was intriguing and clever and sarcastic and not unattractive and I thought he had potential but I waved in the hall and he didn't wave back and he didn't want to sit next to me in class.
I invite a boy I've known since 3rd grade to sit next to me in class, and he does, but then his friend shows up and there's a wistful look in his eyes. He doesn't talk to me, and he switches his seat the next day.
I sit at a crowded lunch table full of people I don't like because the people I do are outcasts. I don't have time to eat all my food.
I switch lunch tables to sit with my crush, by invitation of a friend. They ignore me to talk to each other. I try to join. I ask what's so funny. They shake their heads. He's sitting almost on top of me because the tables are so small but he never even turns to look at me.
Last year he sat with us and talked mostly to me and her table was having drama and fighting and now they all wear skirts to school and look pretty and my eyes are puffy and my legs have a light layer of fuzz which is easy to see because I'm still so pale.
I was the only person to sit alone on the first day of biology class and when I walked in the second day a girl who's never been particularly nice to me and wasn't in the class yesterday is there. She's excited to see me. She asks me to sit next to her. She looks at my paper while I write. I don't say anything because I don't want to sit alone anymore.
I'm stressed out by the second day. Unprepared.
718 more days.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
Inside the bunny suit
my ears are still small
and round, and percussive
sounds come to visit me
costumed in white muffles.
Inside the bunny suit
a bead of sweat itches
my nose to rabbit fidget
and wiggle-twitch where
my fingers can’t reach it.
Inside the bunny suit
a thin layer of nylon dots
inserts its silky self
between me and everything
I fumble to touch.
Inside the bunny suit
the outside world’s broken
up by a half-dozen holes,
and green strands fuzz the focus
of each fragmented peep.
Inside the bunny suit
probing orange lights
make kaleidoscope shapes
through those same cut
openings. They distract me.
Inside the bunny suit
I can smile at and feel
closer to the fantastic
creatures who surround me
in their own decorous skins.
Dec 18, 2010
Dec 18, 2010 at 6:17 AM UTC
I understand my panther pal.
if we lock eyes
we never turn our backs
to each other,
yet even if I did
his cuteness would creep
into my nightmares;--;
a phantom of fuzz
and moonish green eyes.
fiendishly plucking my
arm hair with his claws.
rend my flesh asunder
by nightly tongue lashings.
. . . . . .
I understand my panther pal.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 8:40 PM UTC
grated lemon sunbeams stream
through the cracked shades in my room
setting the fuzz of your hair alight, pixie grass
and your eyes shift under their almond blankets
a fan of black lashes rippling open, open
there is a flavor to your irises, the way your pupils dilate
as if, maybe, I am the sun
Jul 16, 2012
Jul 16, 2012 at 1:11 PM UTC
By the pond, where the egret sleeps,
where the hawk flies overhead,
and the weeping willow weeps,
I will find my lullaby, to lull me to sleep.
By the pond, where the ducklings go,
back and forth, to and fro,
following mother, grey fuzz, all in a row,
I will walk unhurried, slow.
By the pond, on the grassy banks,
I will hum a tune under a cloudless sky.
Pass by the blue heron, and silently give thanks,
and while away the hours, and watch the seabirds fly.
By the pond, where the white swans glide,
I will shade my eyes from the sun’s bright rays,
as otters frolic, swim and hide,
unmindful of time in these last days.
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
There are things that I think that I need
and things that I think I need but I actually just selfishly crave.
I don't know if it is the first or the latter, but I just want you to look at me.
Not just a passing glance, but really look at me;
see me for what I am and what I have to offer.
Look at my freckles and see more than freckles.
See the rain drops on the pavement,
the constellations and music notes.
Read my cheeks like sheet music.
Create a symphony out of those brown spots that all other men see as ordinary.
Touch my skin.
I never use enough lotion.
Do I need it?
Of course not.
My skin is softer than a mothers breast,
It can soothe you like cashmere.
It could ignite a hunger in you like the fuzz on a peach.
Take a bite.
I taste delicious
I know it.
But you don't know it.
You're starving and you don't even realize it.
You wouldn't know a good thing if it fell from heaven and hit you
square in the face.
I could be worth a million dollars,
I could be a movie star,
and still you would walk by like I am plain as a white brick wall with not an ounce of graffiti on it.
See me.
Let me in.
Let me fill you up,
let me call you home.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 12:18 AM UTC