"hiccuping" poems
Deep out on the rim of the galaxy
there lies a tiny place
that no one knows about.
It’s the place where all good things come from.
All the generations of and for love
and kindness and bliss and forgiveness
root at its source.
It is the ultimate destination
among our solar heavens.
Try to imagine a lost vessel,
isolated and tired,
hiccuping between the suns,
then finding the Great Milky Way's secret place of joy.
Our undisclosed place of love.
The place we all forgot.
Earth.
These occupants of the ship would be lost to reveling
at our earthly capacities for tenderness.
OH, the total bliss they all must feel!
Ahh,
be careful now you.
I've gone and caught you being optimistic.
Try to remember this solid truth.
Equally hidden in the stars,
there is a place of evil.
One where the tempted souls
and sinners place their geneses.
A place of desperation and angst
and fear and segregation.
There is always a little a yin to the yang.
There is no one with out the other.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
there's something to being happy
smiling with all twenty-eight pearly whites
laughing so hard
that our abs begin to burn
hiccuping
and choking
and crying
as we tend to do
looking away every time our eyes meet
and giggling to ourselves
because we know it's not that funny
it's that feeling of euphoria
an abnormal feeling of
buoyant vigor and health
a feeling we cannot control
but we welcome that helplessness
because we know it can't last forever
and no matter who we pray to
or what we say
or what we accomplish
we only have this moment
to feel the way we do
Apr 26, 2012
Apr 26, 2012 at 4:13 AM UTC
I missed you today.
With a suddenness, a bereft slap across my skin.
When that familiar hair ahead of me on the sidewalk
turned.
And it wasn't you.
I missed you in the hollow of the moment of the stranger who wasn't you.
And with resounding howl
Like a grieving mother
I missed you.
I remember in the sheets we'd tangle,
I smelled them. I smelled summer air and my perfume
I smelled your soap and your musk in that minute second on the street.
I stopped and I breathed in deep. Inhale, Inhale.
Before you turned and it was not you.
Like a sailor's wife on the shore
I watched as the stranger who wasn't you turned back down the street
Growing smaller and smaller in the distance.
And a thousand piercing stinging blinding pins of light forced themselves.
They stabbed at me and took my breath.
Took your scent and the bed we lay.
On the street, on the street
as you walked away, the stranger.
Paralyzing me with your nearness only to be someone so very much not you.
I missed you and i stood in the street and gravity gave up its pull to laugh at my foolishness
and my eyes filled with tears to celebrate their perfect deception.
and my bones forgot how to hold on for dear life
and I slid to the ground
to the ground
because
I saw you today on the street. The stranger that wasn't you.
I have learned the art of hiccuping you inside.
Memory, hiccup. There you are now tucked away inside.
Kisses on the soft hairs at the nape. Hiccup that away too.
And all of the hiccups came out in a swallow of your name...
A hundred swallows, truth.
They flew wickedly around my head gleeful in my faux pas.
And ten hungry vultures came to take the remains of my hope.
Pick away greedily at my anticipation.
Satiated on the last of my blind faith and now they are too fat to fly.
And I am too weak to run.
Because I saw you on the street today,
The stranger that wasn't you. My beloved. My adored.
Such a peculiar street.
I will not pass this way again.
sahn
04/09/2014
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 10:37 PM UTC
Happened to me on a street corner
on either a late night or an early morning.
It took a wallet full of cider, a charity of spirits,
a shared packet of ****** and the smell of glue.
Not the cheap stuff, the glue for models,
and they look alright, right? right man?
The night left me outside my head, with my thoughts,
I had a handful of anti-headaches.
We nearly bled out last time we admitted all our mistakes,
my friend, who always ends a night with a head
on my shoulder, snotting up my collar,
hiccuping up frag grenades,
**** and apologies.
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 9:40 PM UTC
Your liquid mercury eyes,
drawn to the sight of a hiccuping heart
half-exposed through a ragged chest,
brought me close and held me there.
Despite that proximity,
in the end not even my own heart
was cold enough to solidify those
mercurial eyes of yours,
and you slid right between my fingers
forever, leaving only a diseased heart
and renewed dispassion.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 11:39 PM UTC
You went to that place
Where her flowers used to grow
Spilling hot, salty tears countless times
Left the air always smelling like the sea
Even years later
You can still hear her mermaid laughter
Echoing through the trees
Grown over with weeds now
Sweet memories resting place
Much like the aching hollows of your heart
Anger rushes through the quiet solitude
Urging your knees to buckle
Digging your hands into rich, wet earth
Sobbing great hiccuping gulps through mournful wails
True pain is that of loss
A circle is finally cleared
Exhaustion floods the moment
Head heavily laid where she rests
Clouds hum by above the canopy
Digging into your pocket
Smiling softly now
Grasping at incubating bleeding heart seeds
A hole here, a hole there
She'll grow again
For the dead never truly leave us
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 12:01 PM UTC
I spent my night with him tonight
Wrapped up in covers
Wrapped up in dreams
He consoled me of all of my troubles
And reminded me that life is not all as it seems
There was some magic tonight
He made me believe in love again
Like when we first were together
Staying out past 2 a.m.
Hiccuping from laughing so hard
The connection we had returned again
And He inspired me
Instead of you, to keep writing
The way he looked at me,
The way he held My hand,
The way he smiled that smile.
You are not my muse anymore
That's why I wanted to give up writing
Because everywhere I turned, you were waiting for me
In every blank Title (optional)
In any poem I read, I found you.
But the freeing thing I realized tonight
By lying in his arms
Is that poetry is what I make of it
I can read a poem about love
And it doesn't have to make me think of you
Because I have so many other wonderful people in my life
I can write about other things than heartbreak and memories
I can write of hope and happiness
So yes, you were the reason I started writing poetry
But that doesn't mean that you should be the reason I stop.
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 12:38 AM UTC
As the black girl in front of me leans into the window
I wish I had a camera
Her reflection is forming a double exposure
Of her sad eyes
On a background of fleeting metro lights
Next to me some girl gets slapped
And is then restrained by an old man as she claws after her attacker
There are two Japanese tourists
They seem disappointed
Some guy is staring at me
And tries to nod a bit when I look back
There is also this kid with pale white hands
Half asleep and hiccuping into his lap
Looks like he might throw up at any moment
And in the midst of all the arbitrary existence
I'm sat looking at the sad black girls reflection
And a kind of perfection forms
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 4:03 PM UTC
It was snowing too insistently,
snowflakes almost as big as the eye,
over nostrils, over half-open lips,
over the white lace shawl from my grandmother,
exactly when I was not supposed to wear it.
I had the profile of a porcelain statue
like a Russian girl proud of her kokoshnik.
After a while I started to breathe hardly,
choking first while crying, then while sighing
and finally while hiccuping.
Maybe because of cold and bewilderment,
or because of the strange story about mulled wine with cinnamon.
How could he possibly hide in my blood then
when I had grown up with bitter cherries and wild sorrel leaves,
when I had sipped the milk foam my whole childhood
without crying on the blanket made of rough sheep wool?
How could that man travel between my heart’s mill stones
without being ground down completely?
Now only tears are sticking over nostrils, over half-open eyelids
like a glue from a sour cherry bark wound.
Not a single barrier, not a single one way sign,
not a single red traffic light
or at least a church with holy relics.
Sep 15, 2013
Sep 15, 2013 at 6:13 AM UTC
I dislike my body, much
like how a mother disapproves
of her son's girlfriend.
I'm half-naked in a bed
that isn't mine -- but I'm
used to being adopted by
beds; fostered by
temporary situations.
The sun passed, long ago,
and I know that tomorrow
might vanish, emulating
melting moments aboard
brittle rib cages, slack jaws.
Nothing days like the
yesterday and the one
before that; fragments
not meant to be placed
back together, only to
be cut on, leaving wounds
to be wished upon.
I know, one day, I'll be
as tattered as this flag
I call my master. I will
die, for the thousandth
time, as I talk to an idea
about how I was in love;
how she believed in me;
how my brother was a
man I wish I could have
back; how my littlest
brother was always in
trouble and how I didn't
help enough. I was a
writer, I'll say; I was a
son, I'll whisper that
they were imperfect but
their wish, that's what I was;
their hope, that's what I was.
I was their's.
I'll be sunken into a seat,
staring out a window,
during a night like this.
Hiccuping thoughts
that should be tossed.
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 1:43 AM UTC
An empty room seared into memory
It once held your breathless form
I listened to that heart go silent
Crying wet, hiccuping tears onto your heated skin
I cleaned you up, kept you warm
Tried desperately hard to shut your eyes
Knowing that you would never smile with them again
I cannot say for sure if you heard us
Your father breaking down through the speaker
Mitchell, your best friend, sobbing through the phone
I held each call gently, wishing not to cause you more pain
My voice softly singing the song we danced to at our wedding
The stark, violent feeling of your loss
When you were finally free'd from your mortal prison
For you that word took on a whole new meaning
I have never been so proud as the day when you made me yours
But watching you, fighting along your side
To not give up
Even to your last ghost of thought
I was even more so
Left with an aching dark moon
A dead sun
No light to reflect off of my screaming face
I grieve in darkness
Where I can still feel the weight of your hand in mine
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 10:38 PM UTC
You and I are revolutionaries
Right up to the ruckus we cause daily
Switchblade tongues
And coal black lungs
And bittersweet intentions.
We are the voice of a generation
We the Degenerates
We the Proletariats
We the Lost and Found among the wreckage of the millennial metropolis.
Living in our forever 21 society
Governed by no laws and lack of sobriety
We the reckless
We the ruthless
We the key board warriors
Pixels and manic pixie dream girl *******
**** boys, man buns, Jordan's not brogues
We the soulless love makers
We the relentless heartbreakers
We the snapchat sexters, molesters
We the grotesque.
You and I know no boundaries
Lines crossed and used as skipping ropes
As ***** jokes, cut throat and savage
We the endless trouble makers
We who know the end is nigh
Hiccuping our ways through orchestrated lies
Screaming and bellowing our silent pleas to this world of terror alight
Setting fire to ourselves daily
We the terrified
We the unjustifiable
We the hopeful sad
We the gods of everything and nothing
We the repercussion of double standards
140 characters in every psalm
We the unforgiving
We the unholy
We the non believers
We the incomprehensible in the face of sin
You and I are not recognised by x or Y
We identify in binary with the wind and the stars
Honest realisation that our little lives are insignificant to the monologue of the universe
Lighthearted libertines light years ahead and behind
We the star struck
We the scientists and academics
We the prophets
The artisans
The beauty queens
The mystics and cynics
And I am the voice of a generation you rendered speechless
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 8:44 PM UTC
When dirt becomes a dye
no one has to tell a joke
people will naturally laugh with the hyenas
Howling and hiccuping
before they tear into grimly flesh.
They’ll talk to one another
in fits and starts.
Spotting stains on mopped tiles
Their tongue, the hammer of the judge,
stripping the “sanitation agencies” off
their robe of service.
Their society gradually becomes an appendicitis
It's streets drowned in ********
But it won't really bother the people
Until the day the fat maggot chokes on sewage
Then they'll gather together
And wonder what just happened
Jul 23, 2017
Jul 23, 2017 at 7:44 PM UTC
if hiccups mean
you’re being missed,
you must be out there
with water up your nose
and upside-down,
holding your breath,
wondering why it won’t stop.
it’s me.
my fault.
i miss you too much
and too often..
and i don’t plan on stopping.
..
you must be
hiccuping
to death by now.
i miss you
like it’s my job
like it’s rent due
like missing you
might make you show up.
it won’t.
but maybe
you’ll feel it.
just once
Aug 6, 2025
Aug 6, 2025 at 10:33 AM UTC
all the preparing
for the big show
the making things perfect
the displaying of stuff just so
there's the
*mixing
blending
shaking
seasoning
pouring
cooking
boiling
baking
frosting
whipping
cutting
trimming
spooning*
followed by the
*devouring
wolfing
scarfing
cramming
munching
chomping
noshing
guzzling
slurping
swallowing*
and ending with
*burping
hiccuping
passing gas*
and passing out
happy thanksgiving
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
Bite a strawberry in June and try to tell me you can't taste color.
A quiet lapping sea sloshes pink foam over crunchy sand seeds.
Stare at watercolors--make eye contact and listen to the breeze.
Maybe rustling trees are symphonies in green. Kiss me,
watch my heartbeat pulse and quiver, bubble through my mouth;
racing, hiccuping out heat from my throat’s abyss.
Smell my hair, breathe the sugary bonfire billowing from every pore,
pine needle goosebumps that rise and fall in Redwood symmetry.
I'll visit your grave, dragging a Santa sack of rotting flowers in my brain,
and (pretend I don’t) feel and hear and smell and see everything
and nothing all at once.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
See the hiccuping of the boy,
I think he's angry at the joy.
He finds it hard to see the plant,
Overshadowed by the big ant.
Who is that dreaming near the cheese?
I think she'd like to eat the disease.
She is but a deep child,
Admired as she sits upon a wilde.
Her fascintating car is just a fish,
It needs no gas, it runs on dish.
She's not alone she brings an administration,
a pet buddy, and lots of information.
The buddy likes to chase a heartbreak,
Especially one that's in the cake.
The boy shudders at the creamy eye
He want to leave but she wants the lie.
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 12:57 AM UTC
How old were you
when it turned out
that we only grow to die
and how long did it take
for that to terrify you,
and how long did it take
for growing at all to
make you sick,
how long did you live
before you were ready to die?
Some people never live at all
before they’re swept away and
some people try so hard to escape
and keep on failing.
Living is so awful, so
mind-numbingly painful and yet
- and yet and yet and yet -
somehow its so beautiful too.
Somehow we live only to die
and somehow we survive that short,
confused, horrified, hiccuping existence,
and make it worth it. How does
love work that it takes something
so tortured and impossible
and turns it into something
almost beautiful?
how does that work at all
Apr 2, 2013
Apr 2, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
I worry I will never be okay enough to survive.
each step in this life leads me into more trauma
and I am collapsing inside the hands of tragedy.
here I am hiccuping between breaths
and hoping for a hint of harmony-
but my diaphragm won't let me feel it.
everything hurts today
and I am choking on promises
I never got the chance to make.
my therapist tells me it's okay to grieve
the things you never got a chance to have.
well then I will spend most of my life
forgiving everyone for what they never gave me.
I will sit wrapped inside this idea of a happy family
or this idea of monotony and normalcy
or this idea of a friend who doesn't try to take advantage of me
or abuse me, I am exhausted thinking about where I have been.
when will my limbs be enough to pull me up-
when will I be strong enough?
everyone is so quick to let me down
but how can they carry me with this spine
full of trauma, this darkness that weighs on me?
I have been my own backbone for 23 years,
so why can't I do it anymore?
What does stability look like?
Does it have a face that resembles mine?
Will I ever get a chance to know her?
Or is survival the only face I recognize anymore?
When will it turn survivor?
I wrote you notes in high school
and we talked about our future.
I always thought my depression would **** me first-
but at least I know now how badly it would've hurt you.
A car wreck broke my chest
and I'm left here picking up the pieces.
Somehow a death has kept me from leaving.
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 2:41 PM UTC
i cannot seem to find any air
when i am with you .
.
.
so
i try to make myself anew,
and then
push myself out into a world where i find that
then
i cannot breathe,
and so when you hit me,
instead of laughing,
i just choke ,
and instead, when i feel water
in my lungs,
i heave
instead of hiccuping,
and finally understand why
i am not the favorite child.
.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 5:15 AM UTC
Old memories and dizzy songs from her childhood dance across the roof of her brain eyelashes dripping tears and hiccuping painful sobs. Hiding in the school bathroom not from bullies but her own fears. Blinking at the reflective yellow tiles she pushes away the yellow bathroom.
Water drips into the rusty ***** porcelain and the mirrors fog from humidity. Gasping for air and resemblance looking down to see that his hands aren’t there.
Fingers trembling and stepping out of the stall, one among over the sink washing the tears from her face and praying for a vacation, vacation from hell, mania, and psychosis infested cranial cavity and fog swirling swarming her.
Worrying about her fate again that a small breeze of nostalgia fluttered in her heart. Thinking a moment past she had someone in her room that she loved. A person of flesh to talk and hug.
She is lonely now. She could not be more different and she has lost the memory-self that come to the state of reality where she is in the high room alone.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 2:48 PM UTC
Laughing only a little bit
is no good.
You should laugh until
you are hiccuping, until
there are tears coming
out of your eyes.
You must laugh
at the world,
at your fears,
at Goldie Hawn’s line
on Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-in.
You must laugh your way
out of your room,
down the stairs,
out the door.
And when you are done laughing,
you must lie on the cool grass
and tilt your head at the sky
and open your arms
to hug the
whole wide world.
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 9:37 PM UTC
she wishes for tears.
for egregious heavens…
some way home.
good and dead…
hopeless.
how to taste absolution?
beer and a velvet mousse.
and then consume one breath.
violent shiver became colors of waves.
some elusive fantastical reckoning.
my garden of take, always take.
wrathful water, take a risk.
abduct the heavens!
be over… be lost…
******
bad mother and hiccuping truth.
and that perfume guilt leaves.
my, we grow up into lonely, silent, aging, memories.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 2:33 PM UTC
Parable of Torvisco: “branched among the thickets of ignorance, their foliated stems speak of the white blood that has fallen from the souls that resiliently endured the solitude of their limbs and who enjoyed their ruddy bark and the pubescence of the Daphnes that gawked at over them turned into Laurel, she being a spatulate flower of Vernarth, like Apollo elliptically adoring her with the underside, and something fuzzy hiccuping over the teachings of someone who is not loved. Being the Daphniform Torvisco, of appressed retractable sepals that are pronounced on the laurels in Dafnomancia of the pubescent Torvisco on the first ************ of Daphne, leaving the ovoid crusts near the foliate stolon of the grayish spurs on the fins of the Pelecaniformes Petrobusjos, leaving the Malloga the lice. of their plumage that they are eaten by laurels, as a carminative antispasmodic digestive degassing, in the flora of the intestinal Torvisco engulfed by their pride and eagerness of nobility.
Parable of Sacred Bud: “first the animals and the buds that emanated from the inflorescences were venerated, as gods of the occult sprouting from the long-lived saps being miscellaneous family taxonomies that were consecrated to gods trapped by the mists of their foliage, over the colonies of other species with outbreaks of bud expiration in the distant buds of the leaves, towards non-renewable woody plants, for critical tempering to germinate on the dogma of woody herbaceous plants, as sacred shoots of ferns without their cell walls. Here is the tree of evil and good, sprouting one of each but as hyper-sprouting, which deceived the eyes of those who wanted to cut it because of the human snooping in bloom, on the shores of Medea's hands, growing on the shore of a headless river deity, who was not yet poisoned by an Olympian gesture, agreeing to have long fragrant and rosy hair on the pubescent teenagers who dared to call themselves Medea "
(Prócoro redoubling his sinister imagination of the Rosé of the Witches and grotesques, he was still ecstatic at the expectation of the extensions of the Rosary of the Evangelista San Juan simulated in the crowned Torvisco, for purposes of the genetics of the world in the hands of pubescent bodies that were embodied in the bodies and their stolons, like retrograde shoots going towards the spheres of the pelecaniform Petrobus and its little lice that resided in it as vital alarms. Structuring thus, the grazing that ran from its wings with vigorous fine pediculosis, which was abstracted from the scalps Medea decked out in megalomania in the sprouts of the Enchanted Torvisco)
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 6:16 PM UTC