"hiccupping" poems
Anything.
To keep my mind off of you
Anything.
To keep me busy so my mind doesn't wander
What are you doing
Are you happy
Do you miss me
How often do you think of us and what lies untouched between us
How much better is she than me
The truth
When my mind does wander,
I catch my breath,
In the kind of hiccupping way,
As if I had been crying all day...
Invisible tears
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 2:56 AM UTC
The door slid silently into position
Utter panic wrote its epitaph before
The air resisted, collapsing your boxed
Voice, hiccupping to a captured halt
Scrawny syllables, whithering
Slogans designed to entangle, split
Personality in tow, pushing sickening
Sentences to the back of your throat
Gagging the saliva of terror burning
Apart effortlessly. Remorse did not attend
Strangulating the heaving mass.........
The handle remained unturned, imagined
Fear felled you, trapped consciousness
Performing blackouts, dragging into a
Well of invisible discipline, conjuring
Paranoid stifling circles to spy with menace
Fading fast, blinking on hold, staring out
Slow motion heart rhythm journeyed
To cold climates leaving warmth unaccounted
For and you left on the cold cold slab
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 11:56 AM UTC
On strange days
like these
baking cookies
is an arcane art.
For it is winter outside
how we transform
the inside
into mystic summer.
For i know the golden ratio.
i have surrounded
myself with graduated cylinders
that recall the lore
of cups and ounces.
Retorts of pots and pans
where i can observe
the powers of this world
returning and combining
into simmer.
Such smells
waft from the oven
as ginger swirls
and cinnamon sworls
like molten mountains jumble.
As the elements combine
eggs and butter
await their transformation.
Some believe that
transmuting baser metals
into gold somehow proves their worth
but they have never
crafted cookies.
At my round
small wooden table
my imaginary children enjoy
the coming holiday of doughy
spell-making.
They beam at me
with their gumdrop eyes
and jelly bean smiles
and write Latin script
with licorice and raisins
on their raiment.
As the homunculus
i have constructed
out of hen’s teeth
and oatmeal.
with a retro fish tank.
skips like calendar with
an extra leap year.
hiccupping time.
Mice in the wainscot
squeak as Saturn
rises auspicious
in their whiskers.
As my roller
impresses and passes
i fill the silver trays
the cuckoo clock strikes thirteen.
While i in a black forest script
write of spells
of life and death
and of the perfect
distillation of a sugar cookie
in baker notation
Sprinkles on the flour
that has spilled upon my table
from the shifter….
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
I do not believe my love is pretty
Or that it belongs among your soul.
It is pathetically afraid of catching glances.
And it clings to distance with a passion.
It is alive but it dances among shadows.
It curls under your hands
And races backwards
Hiccupping into the dark.
I never claimed to love
Before any of my heartbreaks.
So you kiss my lovely friend
Unaware that I have fallen.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 10:02 PM UTC
Unfamiliar furniture trims the parlor room
embellished with odd relics
of histories past.
Their eerie faces haunt me
incriminating
this momentous hour
my mother’s voice fades away to gray
Be strong, be strong . . .
It has begun
Are there telephones in heaven?
Maybe it’s a one-way call.
My cryptic eyes dart a heavy daze
hiccupping on salty streams that overflow composure
But he is the essence of grace,
a beautiful surrender.
Step forward into the light
that shines upon infallible judgment,
my turn to wager peace
with this glorious king,
this King of May!
Blooming virtues in my ears.
I am still the apple of your eye.
I riffle through timely prayers
that floats aloof to I don’t know who?
I say old man forgive me
for you are right:
I will forget what you have said.
Nor will I remember things you’ve done.
But I will
never forget how you
have made me
Feel…
Sep 23, 2010
Sep 23, 2010 at 1:50 PM UTC
I want you to kiss me
until the liquor on your breath
burns my tongue,
to hold me so tight that
the smoke on your clothes
rubs into my skin, and the hiccupping beat
of your tired heart is all I can hear
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 12:05 PM UTC
I am laughing,
not beautiful,
tears squeezed out,
snorting and hiccupping
as I gasp for breath.
Perhaps it is beautiful
for its truth.
Sailing
faster and faster,
faster than I can
think
or breathe
or scream
to the dusty corners of the universe.
He swears
his eyes are mysterious
and I peer into them
to check,
but I know
they are not
for I fear the unknown.
Mid-air,
questioning
and pulling back
to save myself
but it is too late,
I have
lost control.
He watches
as I sit on the floor
singing loudly
as if I were alone.
Then
he joins in
and I am not alone.
Where am I going
What am I doing
Who
even
am I
If only
I knew...
Sunshine
and fingers laced together,
I smile
a small, small
smile
and give in.
He smiles back.
In this world
people are nothing.
Less than nothing.
Nothingless.
But he whispers
in my ear
and I am something.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 9:40 PM UTC
the train leaves at 5, but
you won’t be there like you said.
you’ll be finishing off other people’s beers
at a sport’s bar in Michigan,
fighting off the urge to call your first love,
shoving the drooling boys off your arm,
hiccupping and cursing and crying
you whisper your worst fears in stranger’s ears,
this is therapy, you think,
this is love.
the police had to give you a ride home,
and even though you still make jokes,
you’re quieter than you were before.
by the time you’re left sitting on your porch,
the world is spinning, and you can’t find the key,
and feeling up your pockets and the floor,
you start to feel frustration swell like acceptance,
like finally understanding that this is it,
this is it.
it’s 3 in the morning, and
the train left ten hours ago, and
once you find the key
you slip inside
you will curl up on the rug
let it scratch your cheek
and you cry because you stopped trying to talk to him
and you cry because you don’t think he cared
and then you pass out, with clenched fists and hair still pinned up
and you forgot about the train
i wish you never had to wake up to the realization
that you missed it
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 2:47 AM UTC
I used to know how to write about my body,
how to take this amalgamation of memory
and harness it into something beautiful
but somewhere along the lines I lost myself.
lately I have been hiccupping at the edge of a knife
nerves running rampant beneath my skin
nothing to say to this pain threating violence to this body.
I try to look grief in the eyes these days
but inside I am still that small fragile girl
wishing ripped hair follicles were the only thing
falling apart on this body.
But I have made a mess of not feeling
not writing, just running away from
the knife that begs to cut me open.
I have kept it so close to my chest
never wanting to see how this trauma
could exit so tragically
due to a single memory.
but here I sit, hand full of hair
blade to my forehead
wishing this childhood was
just a nightmare I could wake up from.
and the knife isn't real
but the memories still are
so still I sit
hands empty, chest aching
at all they have done to me.
take and take and take
this body that still after 29 years
doesn't feel like it belongs to me.
So I return
knife to paper
pen to paper
fingers to keys
wishing I could make something
beautiful
out of
my own
remembering.
Jan 8, 2025
Jan 8, 2025 at 10:03 PM UTC