"hipped" poems
We the pixies clench our buttocks..... Or up yours Dave...
There is tell of a foetid rancid hellish hole
in the wild wood,
only visible by half light - every leap year,
where thick knobbed hairy arsed gnomes
plot the buggering of slim hipped
virginal pixies.
they sit cross legged on woolsacks-
knitting ****** shaped thorny policies
for the inevitable insertion,
the thickest of **** and hairiest of ****
get to chew upon the sweetmeat
of the mythical proletariat in perpetuity
as a stipend for their buggery,,,
or so the tale goes...
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 11:43 AM UTC
I’m sorry if my body fat
triggers feelings of disgust in you,
but I hope you’re ready
because I’m about to shoot the gun.
Please, don’t feed the fat girl in a bikini on the beach.
My skin is not an insult, a statement, an apology,
or something to be picked and pulled apart
by your crisp magazine pages.
I refuse to cry over the pale white lines that show I
have blossomed from a child into a wide-hipped woman.
I don’t need a man to tell me that my body is acceptable,
merely by his standards of what his ******** rises for.
I’m sorry if my life makes me happy, and your life makes you not,
but I choose weight over senseless standards because
I can be beautiful with double-digit-sized pants.
Maybe you are uncomfortable with your
own uncomfortableness and with my
security in my flawed skin.
And although many of my “sorry(’s)” in this passage
are sarcastic, I am genuinely sorry that someone can feel
so negative in the only space that will ever truly be their own.
Please, don’t feed the fat girl in a bikini on the beach,
she does not need bitter and hateful words
that will literally eat away at her.
She’d much rather you go find someone
who actually gives a ****
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
My daughter will not crawl from crib to tanning bed.
She will learn
the terms “unnattainable beauty standards” before she learns the alphabet.
She will never compare herself
to anyone.
She will never compare herself to Britney, Christina, Selena.
She will never compare herself to Cinderella, Ariel, Belle,
Hell. No.
She will never aspire to be the sultry *** kitten taking seductive showers in shampoo commercials.
No.
My daughter will be named Venus.
The goddess of love, beauty, fertility,
The most beautiful woman I ever saw.
She is plump, fullfigured barebreasted wide hipped with curly hair covered mons
Goddess.
My daughter will grow up to be ****** poisonously beautiful
With long locks of goldenrodred hair, like her mother.
Greyblueblack eyes and shoulder freckles, like her father.
And if I can never become pregnant,
my sisters daughters will be my daughters
skin the color of cinnamon or chocolate, or vanilla ice cream
and just as sweet.
Men, women, boys, girls will pine over her, fall in love with her radiating skin
that will never look photoshopped, but always real.
As if the sun came down from the sky to give her the glow of all the light in the universe.
She will love her body the way that my mother taught me to love mine.
I will show her pictures of Whoopi Goldberg and America Ferrera and Margaret Cho and Marilyn Monroe
And she will know that beauty
is not a synonym
for skinny.
Beauty
is not a synonym for
****
Beauty is not defined by size
or color
or texture, no.
It is defined by how she distributes
her love
and light
to everyone she meets.
no exceptions.
and she will never doubt that she is lovely.
Sep 2, 2011
Sep 2, 2011 at 11:47 AM UTC
YOUR eyes were gem-like in that dim deep chamber
Hushed and sombre with imprisoned fire,
With yellow ghostly globes of intense aether
Potent as the rays of pure desire.
Your voice was startled into vivid wonder,
When the winged wild whining mystic wheel
Took flight and shot the dark with frosty crashings
Like an ice-berg splitting to the keel.
Your flesh was never warmer to my passion
Than when, moving in that lumor green,
We saw with eyes our fragile bones enamoured
Clasping sadly on the pallid screen.
You seemed so virginal and so undreaming
Of the burning hunger in my eyes,
To peer more fever-deeply in your being
Than the very death of passion lies.
The subtle-tuned shy motions of your spirit,
Fashioned through the ages for the sun,
Were dumb in that green lustre-haunted cavern
Where you walked a naked skeleton;
Slim-hipped and fluent and of lovely motion,
Living to the tip of every bone,
And ah, too exquisitely vivid-moving
Ever to lie wanly down alone--
To lie forever down so still and slender,
Tracing on the ancient screen of night
That naked and pale writing of the wonder
Of your beauty breathing in the light.
1.9k
And we all shine on.
The thorn of love that is invisible to strangers.
Here comes the husband’s attitude again. Pass with Care.
Here comes the husband’s paycheck again. Pass with Care.
And here we have the husband’s mistress again. And she passed with care.
Now, we have this baby girl. One more piece for the puzzle-family:
“And you know I ain’t never want no half nothing in my family.
My whole family is half. Everybody got different fathers and mothers.”
Sacrifice, Mama. Ain’t that what it’s all about?
Rose. Rose. The one who is already risen.
When you banished him from your bed, did he contort his frame
and slug his way toward the door,
continued down the hallway
and down the stairs
to leech away the ghost of that emotion that Tallahassee-big-hipped-girl gave him?
Give your daughter, now, the hungry fatigue that you had to acquire. Pass with care.
And now you stand with this goblet in your arms.
Goblet of light. Golden flower in your heart and in your brain. This baby girl --
Breather of the goodness in the world.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 2:38 AM UTC
Bevelled slick edges,
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
Chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
Wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
Daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
toddling, stiff-hipped
thoughtfully sniffs each stalk of ****
as if savoring
dog poetry
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 3:33 PM UTC
Cleethorpes
Shoveling sand up Sally's ***
n passing gas in the Lido,
Fitties camp n a loose hipped *****
somefuckers dog named Fido.
Oh yeah; shove-halfpenny with gennyreny
and pitch n toss in big alley,
candyfloss, Bruce Lee's Big boss
n slurping on Sally's valley.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 2:19 AM UTC
I quite like plastic sandals,
**** shaped candles,
and big assed women in my bed,
I like artistic folks and ***** jokes
and piccalilli on rye bread,
I like big gay men and Tony Benn,
loud mouthed scousers and Steven Fry,
I like The small faces whisky chasers
and come home Lassie - made me cry.
I like the upturned curl
of ******** dog lip
the hurl and swirl
of big girl hip.
I like Bevelled slick edges
and reeaal eeaasy slopes.
chilli dip wedges
with fresh artichokes.
wanton loose wenches
and swivel hipped ******
daft dawgs and dentures
and granddad - who snores.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 10:18 AM UTC
.
Whipped
Whipped Whi
Whipped Whip
Whipped Whipp
WhippedWhip
ped Whipped
Whipped Wh
ipped Whippe
d Whipped W
hipped Whipp
ed Whipped W
hipper Whipp
Whipped Whipped
Whipped Whipped Whipped Whip
Whipped Whipped Whipped Whipp
Whipped Whipped
Jun 15, 2015
Jun 15, 2015 at 4:52 PM UTC
Stalks of bronze leaves croon and
the manicured trees burst jade
against the sky, dangling over
tilted dark green benches.
I pretend to read,
trailing over the pages the oily noses of
dark-eyed, wide hipped nannies
willowy limbed women whose
scarves unfurl under artless chignons,
business men with careful mouths,
long, frecking strides.
He broke the fourth wall without warning and
my laugh was sporadic while I crumbled,
under the slightest of foreign touches, there,
above my shoulder blades,
where another hand
once brushed.
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 5:18 AM UTC
I’m
Picking you
Picking you
Picking you out
And
Bleeding you, bleeding you, bleeding you dry with
The
Sharp sheers of my too clever coffee-lipstick-stained
Lord
And the garden variety scorn you Rose-hipped hipsters
Said
Your rosy glasses and tinted cheeks proclaimed, and:
I’m
Casting you
Casting you
Casting you out
The
Immortal, infallible garden of meaningful
Man
And his poetry-stained bedsheets and love bites
Has
Taken to candle lit vigil nights and too tall pedestals, has
Become
More or less himself, of himself, for himself, for nothing, really,
One
With smug sadness and the proud self-aware death
Of
Self-proclaimed martyrdom sold to
Us
Twenty-five percent off at Walmart.
I’m
Taking you
Taking you
Taking you down
To
My level, (game over, hit restart)
Know
That you were always player two and
Good
Intentions are nothing more than fancy dress
And
On your sleeve sit a collection of hearts,
Evil,
They pave the way to hell.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 5:05 PM UTC
Fully ambulatory with
onanist wrists,
neither whig,
nor tory,
nor communist,
he's loose lipped
loose hipped
quite well equipped,
he's bendy n trendy,
he's buff, n ripped.
not quite castrato
and gives good vibrato
to choirboys mulatto -
with belly button fluff.
Obi.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 12:57 PM UTC
Down
Midnight shoreline, down
Where the horizon meets the sky
We go down
Towards
Meager but eager, towards
Forever inching away from the lie
Moving towards
[The cold shower wakes you from slumber land
where the clouds were only vapour
and their atom bomb, shell casing suicide shitstorm
was but a nightmare in the mind of the Monarch larvae]
You could buy stocks in Halliburton
make a cool mil
Profit from the prophet, manufacture more than hate
Hollow tips, shallow hipped ***** on the pixel paradigm ***** site
Third eye magistrate, legislation of the pallid nation
Awe-struck in a hazy daze of bullet hole days
Don't ******* play with me, sunshine
David still has his **** in the mouth of a pig
and his own mouth on the great **** of Israel
{REDACTED VERSE}
So we go
Down
Midnight shoreline, down
Where the horizon meets the sky
We go down to baseline loneliness of the soul
and tear our clothes from the vessels we sold
Down we go, to watch the world end
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
Shimmy on an Amen break
belle époque, rockstar
belly dancer.
Hitched up skirt to
crotch-ripped nets , choke
ziggurat louboutins.
A Stratocaster, glitter Sheba
on Hiroshima shadows pouring
snake-hipped ribald, scriptures
from the swelling of her breast
Kneeling, nylon bound and penitent
in a simony of rapture bought
to wet the rubber stamping of
your cattle-battered soles
Low boneyard serotonin glows a
candle wax communion as your
henna painted carry rose
the rivers of my veins.
Your Aramaic shoe-shine boy
*** bitch-slapped drug Messiah
So Dear Mary, it is over you
that I must prophesy.
As you feed the pigs of my disgrace that
fill your head with meat and seed
I'll sup that broken bottle heat that
percolates between your open thighs....
I will be there in the morning a
renaissance scent of cannabis about
your mirrored ceiling....
Jesus wept,
Sweet Magdalen
The thought of you will
gather storms within me
Jun 7, 2017
Jun 7, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
it took me twenty five years
to realize
all i've really wanted to find in life
is a gentle man
who knows just how to behave
when i rest my rose-hipped lips
upon his peach-fleshed lobes
and whisper
"i'm afraid."
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 4:52 AM UTC
listless golden child
release sweet vibrations from thy
frail lungs to crisp the air with their slender elegance
i know th e loose; puRple, scream
splattered rent
a vessel bent to sleepy hammers C;rA,sHing
but in so it was
worn weary thin hipped goddess. A
Jun 4, 2010
Jun 4, 2010 at 7:50 PM UTC
My *** Walt Whitman & Ginsberg inc.
I didnt **** off!
I didnt eye tea black boys
Tonite my *** Yes da one
And ubiflated cabage cloud
Hipped out like blue
Trowsetes
Died acidiniated
Lying greenish like salmon
Pink milk
***** sweat pull
Blacked
With satin smooth fantasy
I rotted likeke pecked tomatoes.
******* and left acient in prune meat.
By pass products of crates bigger
Like patatoe famine
Off of grain
Feeding stock bull fabrics.
Letrexaxing condense
As is strangers mated publicly.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 5:32 AM UTC
between the sweat
on the sick bed, i circle stray satellites
clustered on the ceiling. i let bliss speak
and leave me weak.
my sun
slow licks my lips:
a fire spit. hot tongue. bony hipped.
i strum his back. his skin
and soul.
i reach fever pitch
and burn up 'til i hit
the floor.
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 1:33 PM UTC
She's the type of girl you get ****** to
Late night conversations
Broken down wrapped tight
The type of girl you laugh & trip with,
Without intention of escape,
A means of quick get away.
The type of girl that's good for your mental.
Filled with hopes & dreams
Down for whatever, at anytime.
Not the average high you'll find.
Shes not a shot type of girl.
Out in the height of the night,
The one you turn to
to run away from your problems.
A bitter taste chased one after another.
She was the girl not everyone is familiar with
But has heard of.
Her type of high one of intellect
not easily found on the block.
Friend of a friend hipped on game
She was the type of girl that put you on the real.
The type you tilt your head to the left and puff.
The type of high you only dream about.
Real tokers know her brand of intrigue
The kind of high you keep to yourself
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 7:34 AM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Is it a question
Or a foregone conclusion
Were they radicalized
Or is that an illusion
I’d like to weigh in
To address the confusion
It doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes
To become disillusioned
Why ask the question
If you already know
By the caliber of weapon
How far it will go
It’s understandable
Is you’re a news show
But not law enforcement
Who it’s so below
We’ve seen the movie
It’s the same old script
Shooters start blazing
And we’re in fear’s grip
Not only that
They’re also well equipped
Then the police show up
Once they’ve been hipped
Then there’s a gun fight
Bullets everywhere
Gunsmoke starts rising
And pollutes the air
The perpertrators have an attitude
Of devil may care
And nine times out of ten
They’re going down right there
Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2015. All rights reserved.
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 10:29 PM UTC
then i remember i am
the sun
and the earth
loved me for the nectar
i shed through my
laughter
the woman before and after
you existed
large breasted wide hipped
brown woman
men (boys) have bought me pastries
from new york
and pancakes from diners
whole bottles of malibu coconut
*** and adoration
and
even held
me on
the warm days
i will always crave
the sound of your
voice on the quietest
of nights
but you are not the sun
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 11:29 PM UTC
I remember late nights when you
used to spend the night at
my house sitting on the living
room floor, pecan brown eyes
filled with flight and freedom,
vibrant dreams and serenity,
almond hipped shoulders
in tune with the spinning
soundtrack, as I gently
massaged your head,
thin fingers wedged
in between brilliant
worlds, supersonic
galaxies spinning in sight
beyond Neptune and Venus.
And every part of my soul
was fading inside your
existence, cosmic cheeks
rising in upbeat melodies,
atomic hips over jazzy
diction, iconic infinities
grinding in timeless rewinds.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 3:09 PM UTC
Winter stands on flat frozen feet.
Cold circles swirl, move and in
daylight masquerade.I am
blinded by the stinging swirl.
Here, near my window,
the cat's bowl rests
on the dark plank floor
This season's Specter, the
Ghost days wipe all memory
of high soft summer winds,
a deep water, strong
and free summertime songs.
May I be patient with this winter
cold mutt of a gun down on the
wide hipped grey trench which
in summer feeds my poetry.
You may ask why I seldom write
these days.
I wait for you. I warm
that for which you are
not responsible.
But like Mable in my poems
you sing.
Caroline Shank
2.10.22
Feb 10, 2022
Feb 10, 2022 at 8:53 PM UTC