"grosses" poems
Dear dad,
From you I learned that anger was scary.
You never expressed it in a way that wasn't frightening.
Anger was always directed at someone or something,
You often voiced threats and I could only nod along because I was so afraid.
Ever since the day you burned the bridge we made,
The string that kept me full of hope; burned and faded away,
I'd lie to myself for a long time,
I protected you my whole life.
Because of you, I don't know how to feel mad.
It rarely happens but when it does,
It's usually directed at myself.
Because I don't want to scare or hurt anyone else.
I can't use my voice when I'm angry
I cry and step away,
Or wait until I get to my car to scream
as I drive home and feel hateful.
I hate my anger...
I feel disappointed
I'll never tell you but
I wish you had done better.
Mar 22, 2024
Mar 22, 2024 at 9:53 PM UTC
Place de la Gare, à Charleville.
Sur la place taillée en mesquines pelouses,
Square où tout est correct, les arbres et les fleurs,
Tous les bourgeois poussifs qu'étranglent les chaleurs
Portent, les jeudis soirs, leurs bêtises jalouses.
- L'orchestre militaire, au milieu du jardin,
Balance ses schakos dans la Valse des fifres :
Autour, aux premiers rangs, parade le gandin ;
Le notaire pend à ses breloques à chiffres.
Des rentiers à lorgnons soulignent tous les couacs :
Les gros bureaux bouffis traînant leurs grosses dames
Auprès desquelles vont, officieux cornacs,
Celles dont les volants ont des airs de réclames ;
Sur les bancs verts, des clubs d'épiciers retraités
Qui tisonnent le sable avec leur canne à pomme,
Fort sérieusement discutent les traités,
Puis prisent en argent, et reprennent : " En somme !..."
Épatant sur son banc les rondeurs de ses reins,
Un bourgeois à boutons clairs, bedaine flamande,
Savoure son onnaing d'où le tabac par brins
Déborde - vous savez, c'est de la contrebande ; -
Le long des gazons verts ricanent les voyous ;
Et, rendus amoureux par le chant des trombones,
Très naïfs, et fumant des roses, les pioupious
Caressent les bébés pour enjôler les bonnes...
- Moi, je suis, débraillé comme un étudiant,
Sous les marronniers verts les alertes fillettes :
Elles le savent bien ; et tournent en riant,
Vers moi, leurs yeux tout pleins de choses indiscrètes.
Je ne dis pas un mot : je regarde toujours
La chair de leurs cous blancs brodés de mèches folles :
Je suis, sous le corsage et les frêles atours,
Le dos divin après la courbe des épaules.
J'ai bientôt déniché la bottine, le bas...
- Je reconstruis les corps, brûlé de belles fièvres.
Elles me trouvent drôle et se parlent tout bas...
- Et je sens les baisers qui me viennent aux lèvres.
1.8k
Sounds like crucify.
My hands are bound by his grip
on the plank perpendicular to my toes
that start to curl backwards now.
I binged on memories
of the words words words
and when my ears burned
I imagined you cradling her
on your chest
softly brushing her hair back
and talking about me.
At the summer camp where
Jesus saved me
I picked up a pre-packaged
cereal sealed in a factory
long before my selection.
I peeled away the plastic film
and there where my bowl
of cereal was supposed to be
was a colony of silkworms,
squirming around like
a bunch of tied hogs
in a swimming pool.
I threw up because it grossed me out.
I had no control over it.
When I think about her hair
around your stubby, little fingers
I throw up because it grosses me out.
I have no control over it.
I'm no Will Shortz, but this poem is about you.
There's your clue.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
you?
made of pixels?
hah, if i wanted pixels i would have played nintendo 64 with my neighbour down the street and angrily whispered "h-e-double hockey sticks" under my breath as one of my pixelated hearts faded away.
you are anything but intangible; i can feel your pulse across two countries.
our hearts are undeniably made of flesh.
i know that word grosses you out,
but the blood pumping, orifice-filled organs in our chests constantly beat with the ferocity of 109 percussionists drumming on the queen's birthday.
hearts are not meant for beautification; one cannot get a cosmetic surgery on their heart to impress the girl next door.
it's up to you to pair with your just-as-ugly brain to prove how beautiful love can be.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
hey, god,
can you explain this artificial, chemically grown form of love?
if this love thing's so wonderful,
why is it assigned like some ******* chore?
some combination of cells grosses from your genitalia
and now you have some new tax deductions and soccer games to see.
is love an emotion?
you endure it and feel it like it's turned your bones into wind chimes?
is love an adjective?
does that soup taste of love? does her hair reek of love?
is love a noun?
can you hold it and touch it? can you sew it to your t-shirt?
is love made in a factory?
a touch of obligation, a handful of selflessness?
is love a seed that's planted?
does it break through the earth and climb towards the sun?
is love a song you write?
do a few measly chords grow into music after time spent strumming your heart strings?
the earth is coated in conditions,
so how does this conditionless concept thrive
in an atmosphere that condemns it?
and why, god, why,
do i appear to be the only one who questions it?
why can't i feel it, understand it, grasp it,
when the rest of the world breathes it like oxygen?
the faithless can mold it,
the faithful live for it.
so what catastrophic flaw is lodged into my brain that disables me to feel it?
to comprehend it?
to accept it?
how can it exist in so many dimensions?
is it like the flu, do you catch it?
is like a piece of art, do you create it?
is it like your mother's crooked nose, do you inherit it?
and how
can a mother look at her newborn
not knowing its intentions, its personality, its thoughts
and feel sunshine that
is rooted in the bottom of
her soul?
Feb 1, 2013
Feb 1, 2013 at 9:30 AM UTC
The night was calm and silent
Until I heard a shriek,
I knew it was my girlfriend,
For her I went to seek!
In the bathroom she was standing,
She looked to be in fear,
Then with her words that followed,
The situation became quite clear
"The toilet seat is up!" she cried
"What is wrong with you?"
"The toilet seat is up" I concurred
"Cos I didn't take a poo"
"It's not hard to place it down,
So really what's the issue?
If it grosses you out to touch it
I suggest you use a tissue "
She yelled at me for an hour,
Whilst I just rolled my eyes,
"Imagine I sat straight down" she said
"And developed a rash on my thighs"
This whole traumatic experience,
Has led me to a decision,
I'll put it down real nice in future,
But **** on it with precision
Dec 10, 2014
Dec 10, 2014 at 12:14 PM UTC
Car tu vis en toutes les femmes
Et toutes les femmes c'est toi.
Et tout l'amour qui soit, c'est moi
Brûlant pour toi de mille flammes.
Ton sourire tendre ou moqueur,
Tes yeux, mon Styx ou mon Lignon,
Ton sein opulent ou mignon
Sont les seuls vainqueurs de mon cœur.
Et je mords à ta chevelure
Longue ou frisée, en haut, en bas,
Noire ou rouge et sur l'encolure
Et là ou là - et quels repas !
Et je bois à tes lèvres fines
Ou grosses, - à la Lèvre, toute !
Et quelles ivresses en route,
Diaboliques et divines !
Car toute la femme est en toi
Et ce moi que tu multiplies
T'aime en toute Elle et tu rallies
En toi seule tout l'amour : Moi !
1k
I don’t want to write poems about breaking anymore.
I’m so sick of my words weaving knots into the fiber
of a noose and polishing the clip of
the anchor it’s tied to
in a dull sleep,
a heavy, hibernation light-years deep
in a cold, black lake,
tangled in seaweed.
Reeling it in,
(sweating, grunting, bellowing)
it doesn’t budge.
I’m figuring out how to
stand my ground too.
I’m done putting my books down
for people who don’t need me,
(people who like me but not enough.)
I’m done with rope burn.
I’ve been wearing my stringy hurt
as a badge all winter and it grosses me out.
I keep mistaking eyes for hands,
smiles and laughs for a net to land in;
this free-fall for an optical illusion.
Awake, my mind is vigilant.
It’s quick and fierce to bat away
any thought that might land,
wheels down onto bits of you,
but I can’t guard my sleeping brain.
In dreams my mind circles back to
quiet-night, November coasting.
Back to my fingers carving out shapes
in the steam fog of your windshield,
back to each dizzy morning where
I searched my phone for a ‘Good Morning’ text
that I never found-
(you never sent one, I never asked.
We were both without precedent.)
How do I exist if not in varying forms of unravel?
What’s the point of collecting the words pumping through
and out of me if not to cover, shield,
and serve as armor when I have no skin?
There’s so much more than you and your fingerprints
or me and my kaleidoscope mind.
Sometimes the best part is no part at all:
I want to write a poem about the silence:
the thick, metal tangle of wires that coil in my head-
they swear they’re waterproof but I’m still terrified to sweat.
I want to write a poem about the before:
before the envelopes were opened,
before the kisses felt cautionary,
before I threw myself in the kiln-
when I was shaped but not permanent,
when I could still make corrections.
Summer has been rolling in and
getting closer to my tanning shoulders
with each sunset and each curtain call.
By the time its here for good
I’ll be writing poems you can’t find yourself in at all.
I’ll be writing poems that
don’t begin broken.
They’ll be poems that are whole
from the very first line and stream words
growing stronger
instead of
growing apart.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 2:40 AM UTC
Le colosse pleure.
Il bouillonne
Il a soif.
Il crie de sa voix frémissante :
H2O !
Ses lèvres sont en ébullition
Il délire
Il voit partout ton eau en mirage
H2O ! H2O !
Hache deux eaux ! Hache deux eaux !
Et tu ne sais que faire
Pour le faire taire.
Tu lui murmures un cantique à l'oreille
Zozo lait, zozo lait rhum
Et tu l'allaites de ton fleuve tiède
Essi ozo
Solide liquide et gazeuse
Il te trait à gros bouillons
Essi ozo
Hache deux eaux
Essi ozo
Les eaux de la Volta
Les eaux de la Seine
Les eaux des Trois Rivières
Et des Vieux-Habitants
Les eaux du Gange
Bouent et s'évaporent
À cent degrés C
En grosses bulles sulfureuses
Au coin de ses lèvres chaudes
Qui s'abreuvent dans l'oasis de ta béatitude .
Oct 29, 2019
Oct 29, 2019 at 5:52 AM UTC
Shhhhh...ECOUTER LE SILENCE
( Shhhhh...LISTEN TO THE SILENCE )
the silence so loud
one could hear
the cat blink
( le silence si fort
on pouvait entendre
le clignotement de chat )
the music of the silence
when the music
stops
( la musique du silence
quand la musique
arrêts )
***
the cicadas weaving
a sudden silence
out of all their noise
( le tissage de cigales
un silence soudain
hors de leur bruit )
***
the only thing heard
in the immense silence
the cicada's beating heart
( la seule chose entendre
dans l'immense silence
les cigales battant coeur )
***
I could hear my blood
circulating within me
the hurtling of large corpuscles
( je pouvais entendre mon sang
circulant à l'intérieur de moi
le dévaler corpuscules de grosses )
***
in the darkness
our hands our eyes
we touch with kisses
( dans l'obscurité
nos mains nos yeux
nous touchons de baisers )
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 5:59 PM UTC
I'm not lying about a lack of chemistry
And Though I'm pretty good at math
There is never enough time to calculate the wreckage we left behind.
I drink to impress you
And it doesn't quite ****** the blue ribbon
And I crack my knuckles because
it grosses you out
But it's for the reaction.
And though we smiled and played the piano on the wrong sides
it was still a melodic start that boiled into the frantic.
We were so drunk we couldn't climb to the roof so we jumped out the window.
John Berrymore wouldve been so proud we didn't break our crowns.
And I'm here now reading infront of you
Fighting back a yawn pretending it's laughter.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
I'm a student so I'm kinda sitting on the toilet
looking out the window in the one of the "centers."
There is this Anselly-Adams snow surrounded pond
in the view but it is all hazed and glazed over from
some fumes. The steamy, heating types.
The fumes are making the view all convoluted.
It is kind of cool but also grosses me out and makes me
feel space-cadety.
Anyway, I see one of my hot babe friends down
below. He is the size of an ant--from my vantage point,
at least. He's wearing a long grey-black pea coat
and combat boots and he's walking with mad purpose.
Like he's about to do something mad important.
And he probably is. He might be picking up his
amp, or going to buy a cup of coffee from the cafe, or going to
play chess with another equally hot babe and
talk about astro-physics.
Whatever he does, I'm guessing there will be a
mild to medium byproduct of disdain, you
know, as a principle.
I felt rather disdainful, today, actually, if you
want to know.
It was because of individually wrapped honeys
(I am NOT talking about small, packaged beautiful ladies).
It is such a waste.
Condense the honey into one container.
Also, not everyone uses the same amount of honey.
Don't lump us together like that, multi-million
dollar food suppliers.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 9:19 AM UTC
Marbre de Paros.
Un jour, au doux rêveur qui l'aime,
En train de montrer ses trésors,
Elle voulut lire un poème,
Le poème de son beau corps.
D'abord, superbe et triomphante
Elle vint en grand apparat,
Traînant avec des airs d'infante
Un flot de velours nacarat :
Telle qu'au rebord de sa loge
Elle brille aux Italiens,
Ecoutant passer son éloge
Dans les chants des musiciens.
Ensuite, en sa verve d'artiste,
Laissant tomber l'épais velours,
Dans un nuage de batiste
Elle ébaucha ses fiers contours.
Glissant de l'épaule à la hanche,
La chemise aux plis nonchalants,
Comme une tourterelle blanche
Vint s'abattre sur ses pieds blancs.
Pour Apelle ou pour Cléoméne,
Elle semblait, marbre de chair,
En Vénus Anadyomène
Poser nue au bord de la mer.
De grosses perles de Venise
Roulaient au lieu de gouttes d'eau,
Grains laiteux qu'un rayon irise,
Sur le frais satin de sa peau.
Oh ! quelles ravissantes choses,
Dans sa divine nudité,
Avec les strophes de ses poses,
Chantait cet hymne de beauté !
Comme les flots baisant le sable
Sous la lune aux tremblants rayons,
Sa grâce était intarissable
En molles ondulations.
Mais bientôt, lasse d'art antique,
De Phidias et de Vénus,
Dans une autre stance plastique
Elle groupe ses charmes nus.
Sur un tapis de Cachemire,
C'est la sultane du sérail,
Riant au miroir qui l'admire
Avec un rire de corail ;
La Géorgienne indolente,
Avec son souple narguilhé,
Etalant sa hanche opulente,
Un pied sous l'autre replié.
Et comme l'odalisque d'Ingres,
De ses reins cambrant les rondeurs,
En dépit des vertus malingres,
En dépit des maigres pudeurs !
Paresseuse odalisque, arrière !
Voici le tableau dans son jour,
Le diamant dans sa lumière ;
Voici la beauté dans l'amour !
Sa tête penche et se renverse ;
Haletante, dressant les seins,
Aux bras du rêve qui la berce,
Elle tombe sur ses coussins.
Ses paupières battent des ailes
Sur leurs globes d'argent bruni,
Et l'on voit monter ses prunelles
Dans la nacre de l'infini.
D'un linceul de point d'Angleterre
Que l'on recouvre sa beauté :
L'extase l'a prise à la terre ;
Elle est morte de volupté !
Que les violettes de Parme,
Au lieu des tristes fleurs des morts
Où chaque perle est une larme,
Pleurent en bouquets sur son corps !
Et que mollement on la pose
Sur son lit, tombeau blanc et doux,
Où le poète, à la nuit close,
Ira prier à deux genoux.
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Seed...
...placed , watered in the soil
With the hope, of Turing into
'Tree'
Seed...
...Forming cotyl
... That eventually differentiates
In epicotyl & hypocotyl
To turn into a leafy stem,
And a fibrous root to be...
Stem...
Growing, developing
...Into a bigger one indeed!
Gradually, happily forming leaves!
Bifurcating into two and many branches to be....
Roots...Helping the stem
Stem... Helping roots
growing in water & sunny heat.
Stems...Now branches
Branches...Now leafy branches
Happily exhibiting their grape green leaves!
The leaves, being a proud elements
Of the latter tree to be,
Working, dedicating,
All their energy
To fulfill their needs.
But oh! These leaves,
These generous ones indeed,
Are unaware , so unaware
Busy working days and nights,
Devoid of greed.
They rejoice at the tree yielding its fruits,
They rejoice when the tree ripens it's fruits,
they rejoice, when these see birds and beasts,
Relishing how yummiliciously sweet it is.
It all passes,
Never worrying them about grosses.
The young leaves come,
And greener it becomes.
And the old grow pale,
Time for the fall.
The tree grows big,
So happy in its veil
Carefree about the leaves,
Who toiled night & day
Growing pale & pale
Pale enough
To even Carbon dioxide's inhale.
Seeing the tree who no more cares,
Fruits & seeds, busy pampered & care d,
They get one thing,
We all should sing,
Nature gives what
It one day takes,
We came from it
Will one day be it's waste.
What is so ours,
Isnt really ours,
Time rules,
And nature mocks!
Oh humans,
Oh birds,
Oh women,
Oh men,
Listen, listen,
As I won't repeat it again,
Hope, hope as much as you can,
But never expect as you always can!
As Hope takes high,
But Expectations drain.
For nature gives,
For nature takes.
It makes you young,
To work most of what you can!
It makes you old,
To live your last lost plans.
Enjoy this life,
As much as you can,
Enjoy what comes,
Regregreting not your pasts 'I cans'.
Care for you as much as you can,
Know, know that somebodydy else will
But nobody forever can!
I'm now but a growing leaf,
At my deathbeds highest peak,
Teaching you as much I can.
Life your life, as you always would.
Be proud of what you can and could.
I was a leaf,
I am a leaf,
An now a jaded, old pale, trashed one.
I came from soil,
As a part of seed,
The seed that yielded a bigger tree.
The tree is happy,
With its flowers and fruits
The fruits yield now,
Many, many seedy fruits.
But oh, this tree this busy one indeed,
Knows not thay it's but the leaves make it!
Today that it has many,
It misses not me,
But oh, I feel pity,
But heart sobs much in misery,
Remembering, reminiscing
That first parent seed
For it was the seed,
That loved & blessed ,
Blessed enough to be a tall
Tall, yet a 'selfish' tree.
Oct 4, 2017
Oct 4, 2017 at 2:53 PM UTC
When I’m on a bend again,
the voices in my head
throw me out of bed and put me in shackles.
The spikes are up and then
the battles that are lead
make sure the demons are fed or atleast tackled.
Memory is hazy but I swear I’m not crazy.
I hide from the feelings that crave their way outside.
I retreat only because I’ve hurt my feet.
It doesn’t have to make sense
burned a bridge and put up a fence,
avoiding dealing with a consequence.
I hide from the things that damage my pride.
I know this all sounds so primitive;
the way that I am, the way that I live.
In my face I’m always slapped
with these thoughts that keep me trapped,
forever debating fiction from fact
so I just let myself fall back
and tell myself that I am ruminative.
Memory phases me but I swear I’m not crazy.
I hide from the feelings that crave their way outside.
I run to trick myself I’m having fun.
It doesn’t have to make sense
burned a bridge and put up a fence,
avoiding dealing with all things past tense.
I hide even from my healing guide.
I keep myself up when I’m alone,
grinding teething and cracking bone
It grosses me out too, not only just you.
I’d like to start fresh, and start out as my best,
pick out a viable side quest,
and then put myself to a real test.
Memory is lazy, but I swear I’m not crazy.
Aug 29, 2025
Aug 29, 2025 at 7:29 PM UTC
(Extrait)
Ce n'est pas le canon du noir vendémiaire,
Ni les boulets de juin, ni les bombes de mai,
Qui font la haine éteinte et l'ulcère fermé.
Moi, pour aider le peuple à résoudre un problème,
Je me penche vers lui. Commencement : je l'aime.
Le reste vient après. Oui, je suis avec vous,
J'ai l'obstination farouche d'être doux,
Ô vaincus, et je dis : Non, pas de représailles !
Ô mon vieux coeur pensif, jamais tu ne tressailles
Mieux que sur l'homme en pleurs, et toujours tu vibras
Pour des mères ayant leurs enfants dans les bras.
Quand je pense qu'on a tué des femmes grosses,
Qu'on a vu le matin des mains sortir des fosses,
Ô pitié ! quand je pense à ceux qui vont partir !
Ne disons pas : Je fus proscrit, je fus martyr.
Ne parlons pas de nous devant ces deuils terribles ;
De toutes les douleurs ils traversent les cribles ;
Ils sont vannés au vent qui les emporte, et vont
Dans on ne sait quelle ombre au fond du ciel profond.
Où ? qui le sait ? leurs bras vers nous en vain se dressent.
Oh ! ces pontons sur qui j'ai pleuré reparaissent,
Avec leurs entreponts où l'on expire, ayant
Sur soi l'énormité du navire fuyant !
On ne peut se lever debout ; le plancher tremble ;
On mange avec les doigts au baquet tous ensemble,
On boit l'un après l'autre au bidon, on a chaud,
On a froid, l'ouragan tourmente le cachot ;
L'eau gronde, et l'on ne voit, parmi ces bruits funèbres,
Qu'un canon allongeant son cou dans les ténèbres.
Je retombe en ce deuil qui jadis m'étouffait.
Personne n'est méchant, et que de mal on fait !
386
Cuisses grosses mais fuselées.
Tendres et fermes par dessous,
Dessus d'un dur qui serait doux,
Musculeuses et potelées,
Cuisses si bonnes tant baisées
Devers leur naissance et par là,
Blanches plus que rose-thé, la
Meilleure part de mes pensées,
Genoux, petites têtes d'anges
Bouffis dans leur juste maigreur,
Mollets bondis qui font fureur
En des bas clairs craignant les fanges.
Pieds dressés pour te hausser jusque
A ma taille pour t'embrasser,
Moi, t'enlever et te placer
Sur le lit, pieds très beaux que busque
La cheville de mol ivoire
Et que parfume leur fraîcheur ;
Doigts délicats, frêle rougeur
Doucement fauve au talon, voire
Assez forte peau pour la marche,
Mais quoi ! faut-il pas au cher corps
Base solide et soutiens forts,
Au cher corps qui garde mon Arche,
L'arche de crainte et de blandices
Où j'entre, tous torts révolus,
Comme on monterait au ciel. Pieds
Divins, genoux fins, bonnes cuisses !
323
Un vase, flanqué d'un masque,
En faïence de Courtrai,
Vieille floraison fantasque
Où j'ai mis un rosier vrai,
Sur ma fenêtre grimace,
Et, quoiqu'il soit assez laid,
Ce matin, du toit d'en face,
Un merle ami lui parlait.
Le merle, oiseau leste et braque,
Bavard jamais enrhumé,
Est pitre dans la baraque
Toute en fleurs, du mois de mai.
Il contait au *** aux roses
Un effronté boniment,
Car il faut de grosses choses
Pour faire rire un Flamand.
Sur une patte, et l'air farce,
Et comme on vide un panier,
Il jetait sa verve éparse
De son toit à mon grenier.
Gare au mauvais goût des merles !
J'omets ses propos hardis ;
Son bec semait peu de perles ;
Et moi, rêveur, je me dis :
La minute est opportune ;
Je suis à m'éprendre enclin ;
Puisque j'ai cette fortune
De rencontrer un malin,
Il faut que je le consulte
Sur ma conquête d'hier.
Et je cria : - Merle adulte,
Sais-tu pourquoi je suis fier ?
Il dit, gardant sa posture,
Semblable au diable boiteux :
- C'est pour la même aventure
Dont Gros-Guillaume est honteux.
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