"hunching" poems
I tied together
a few slender reeds, cut
notches to breathe across and made
such music you stood
shock still and then
followed as I wandered growing
moment by moment
slant-eyes and shaggy, my feet
slamming over the rocks, growing
hard as horn, and there
you were behind me, drowning
in the music, letting
the silver clasps out of your hair,
hurrying, taking off
your clothes.
I can't remember
where this happened but I think
it was late summer when everything
is full of fire and rounding to fruition
and whatever doesn't,
or resists,
must lie like a field of dark water under
the pulling moon,
tossing and tossing.
In the brutal elegance of cities
I have walked down
the halls of hotels
and heard this music behind
shut doors.
Do you think the heart
is accountable? Do you think the body
any more than a branch
of the honey locust tree,
hunting water,
hunching toward the sun,
shivering, when it feels
that good, into
white blossoms?
Or do you think there is a kind
of music, a certain strand
that lights up the otherwise
blunt wilderness of the body -
a furious
and unaccountable selectivity?
Ah well, anyway, whether or not
it was late summer, or even
in our part of the world, it is all
only a dream, I did not
turn into the lithe goat god. Nor did you come running
like that.
Did you?
6.6k
Well, well, well
Something that you don't wish to obtain:
wellness.
Whether it be hunching over the toilet,
evacuating today's third feast of the day,
or continuing to hear whispered words from made-up beings,
not taking the cocktails to silence them
or maybe, just continuing to stay empty,
not letting anything fill the void
Staying sick --
Whether it be of the body,
mind,
or soul,
will not make others love you more,
and it will not make others stay
but it will have them fade away
just
like
you
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 12:15 PM UTC
Fat was the first word people used
to describe me when I was a kid
And that didn't bother me much
until I found out it was supposed to
By the time I was fifteen
I knew what it was like to be clinically
overweight, underweight and obese
It was the year of menthol cigarettes
and baggy clothes
Hunching naked over a scale shrine
Mixing ***** with vitamin water,
complimenting each others thigh gaps
*The year breakfast tastes like giving up
and the only time you feel pretty
is when you're hungry*
Not obsessed with being empty
but afraid of being full
Replacing meals with more practical hobbies
like planting flowers or fainting
And ever since I started evaporating,
girls that never spoke to me,
stopped in the hallway
and had the audacity to ask how
And when I told them I was sick,
they told me I was an inspiration
How could I not be in love with my illness?
My eating disorder was the most
interesting thing about me
But how lucky I am now to be boring
To look at a sandwich
and see just a sandwich
Not half an hour of sit ups
or two spent hugging the toilet
This is the year I find more productive
things to do than googling the amount
of sugar on the back of a
lick and stick postage stamp
The year the calculator in my head finally stops
The year that I eat when I'm hungry
without punishing myself
And I know that sounds stupid
**but that **** is hard**
If you're not recovering, you're dying
When people asked me what I wanted to be
when I grew up,
I said skinny
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 12:30 PM UTC
Tell me your secrets
Let me be your desire
Melt into each other
Burn in passions fire
Tantric touching
Position bodies hunching
Tongue my guide
Feel me inside
Smooth as I slide
Face a roller coaster ride
Treasures need a map to find
Inside you buried is mine
*** can be a naughty thing
If body is all you choose to bring
Tease me tell me I can't touch
Fuels me..till our bodies crush
Crumbles my heart of stone
Exposed I am a M.A.N of bone
Incomplete pieces gone
Inside you I was all along
******** energy flowing strong
Stroke you short.....feel me long
Built up to a mighty swing
Infinite love is what I bring
Every ****** a new height
Scorpio sting feel my bite
Wrap around hold on tight
Focused energy hitting it right
Frictions heat all is felt
Becoming one as we melt...
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 6:23 PM UTC
you wedge your pointer finger between your canines-
in an attempt to appear sublime- or nervous- or seductive
either way it doesn't succeed.
your tooth, teeth
speck of blood, bleed
emerging as you pierce your calloused
yellow patch of skin
(layers & layers of the girls you've touched before)
but you crave one more-
for in every sleepless night
there's a quote to be fill- a new slit to drill-
you're a man.
i can sense it-
throbbing and shaking beneath your olive exterior
how you long to drag
your now bloodied, prior prettied
finger up an off white thigh-
to disregard the things obliged-
to forge the paradigm
from faulty tools,
splintered and battered in a worn down knapsack
duct taped to a hunching back,
you're a man.
thoughts of droning monotone
quiet your hungry bones
(i can hear them)
rattling as you ****
your head and lift that heavy glance up to me.
i can see you,
flopping and thrusting and sweating, which
after years of curiosity has handed me
nothing,
but sweaty sheets and burning ***
i lay beneath you, silent
i'm a woman.
avert your eyes ( i am tempted to plead)
from the onset of premature varicose veins
(i am pale, glasslike, arched & stained)
allow me to suffocate the already immune-
girls born into the world with big black brandings
stamped onto their lightly acne ridden foreheads.
(SMALL, MEDIUM, LARGE)
trim your ribs, shave off the cellulite-
turning a blind eye to accessible insight..
a salad for lunch, make it dinner too.
finger down your throat, orange acid hurling,
stick like dancers twirling,
they bring tears to your eyes,
if only {you} possessed the grace-
but there are pounds to erase.
i'm a woman.
thirteen years of advertisements stapled to your eyes
standing barefoot in a bath tub with chunks of blood
running down shaking legs
kicking off a now crimson pair of old underwear-
stuck & tangled on trembling feet
[ silence your voice and push up your *******
til they're touching your neck.
get a nose job
get a blow job
you're a woman ]
May 10, 2012
May 10, 2012 at 10:50 AM UTC
I’ve ordered and carried my steaming cup of brown to my table to ignore the falling snow beyond the walls of this box.
My clothes are wrong, my hair as well.
I just cut it, and everyone knows which mistakes I made.
A man sneezes and the song changes.
Better not make eye contact with anyone; I am not in their league, here at the muddy spoon cafe.
Chewing so loudly in the de-creeping silence,
these safe, polite, quiet ones.
I am the creep here. I am different.
My thighs are tense.
Hunching over the paper, arms tense and clutching a gnarled red pen--
It’s probably self-indulgent to even sign my name.
Someone’s shuffling cards.
I almost forgot.
The awkwardness I’m filled with breathes out a short sigh when I realize
--my part’s over.
“Do you know Sanskrit? Do you know what that is?”
A woman asks another.
I want to choke on the pretension
The tenseness, I adjust my leg to relieve pressure on my ankle.
Why can’t I just enjoy the snow? That’s all I really came here for-- well, and the coffee.
I hear a woman cough with an unaffected tenor, which would convey her gender to an interested party but to me carries no intonation.
I wonder if the girl I recognize from class thinks I’m following her.
I came here for coffee, sweetheart!
Is it yet too hot for me to dare a drink?
I can see it, the steam, rising out of the corner of my eye.
I haven’t looked away from my hand in twenty minutes.
“Who am I?” they may be asking myself for me.
I don’t have a clue.
They can think about that problem
for themselves
while they’re lonely
in their forties.
I’m lonely now and I hope not to live
that long.
Here, we pretend not to see each other’s faces
in the gleaming presence of steaming cups.
“I don’t want to wonder about that.”
I realize there’s nothing I even deem worth writing down.
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 4:13 AM UTC
You say that you love me,
Passion screaming in your eyes,
As your fingers caress my skin,
Adorning my limbs with green and black.
You say that you need me,
Desperation in every tremble,
As you wrap your fingers round my neck,
Marking me as 'yours'.
You cry that you're sorry,
Hunching over me with guilt,
That hits you like a wave,
Looking at the broken girl lying on the floor.
If love is always this twisted,
This deceitful and manipulative,
Then I'd rather not love at all,
Than go through this twisted hell,
That they call love.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 10:15 PM UTC
The drunk is hanging still
from his father’s old shoelace
and the gentlemen are inside
below the starry billabong
hunching and flinching
and forgetting their prayers.
Cattle of darken faces stare at me
and all I see are diamonds
a dim reflection
of those sweet dreams
that belched a fire on a squall.
Her dark green eyes reminded me
of those few days the midnight shone
a moon clinging from her *******
and the leafed body that she wore
She told me to disappear
behind the prairie we both built
and then burned her luscious look
across the lamp lit afternoon.
A thrush died cowardly
and the soldier broke the rotten gun
well, no timber man could hold still
as the drunken old man drew on the wall
the memories of those born to kneel
before a pair of dark green eyes.
The blatant look stood astride me
but I could never felt a thing
so I dreamt of paradise
welling from the blazing riverside
And as the wind swelled cold
all I saw were her dark green eyes
–they dwindle swiftly to the night –.
I felt a dire shot
as the shoal of words I’d forgot
kindle the last midnight moon
and all I could do is sleep away
leave the pledging river to shine out
just before the aurora from her crown
shut down those dark green eyes.
Mar 27, 2011
Mar 27, 2011 at 4:24 AM UTC
The rapping and tapping,
the hitting and slapping,
sipping and slurping,
The munching and crunching,
the snacking and slacking,
hunching in a darkened room,
Facebook steals your youth.
Jan 2, 2010
Jan 2, 2010 at 6:15 PM UTC
Steam rising from hot cotton
Memories stirring
Turning a collar and smoothing under buttons,
first the inside, the plackets
then the shoulders, cuffs and sleeves.
Who knew the ironing of a shirt
could be such a minuet of parts
and caring
and thoughts?
The flesh these folds would clothe, the
hunching of the shoulders, the
reaching out of hands from
clean
crisp
cuffs.
My mother learned from my father learned from his mother
and I to you
bring hot fresh cotton
my love.
Apr 17, 2010
Apr 17, 2010 at 1:08 PM UTC
My fingers are frozen
stiff and cold
icicles to run down your back
over bumps of your spine
so perfectly straight
not like mine
twisted and broken
aching and hunching
and its not raining
and it might snow
but that doesn't change anything,
anyways.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 12:29 AM UTC
I remember creeping reverently past
The yawning maw
Snarling braches, overgrown foliage
Sad eye sockets
The defeated roof
Listing drunkenly to the left
The black spirals on the ground
Where the fire had scored earth bare
Crouched from the sanctity of the sidewalk
Damp palm snaking back to
Clasp tight
My best friend’s hand
Fear skittering up our spines
We skirted past poisonous green weeds
That swayed in the yard
Unkempt and our eyes
Darted, seeking, feral
For movement in that open doorway
Her shadow
The witch
Years pass
Looking out into suburbia
Manicured green boxes
And cookie-cutter plans
From my own cracked window
My newly acquired reno,
I spot a flash of moving colour
From beyond the overgrown hyacinths
A tousled flash of curls between the green
Puzzlement ripples as
Three lanky preadolescent forms
Snake from the protection of my shaggy firs
Thin chests taking a breath before
Their whippy arms point accusing
And I barely see a flash before
The clutched rock leaves the
Stupid-looking red headed one’s hand
Crashing through my upstairs master
And I hear it
Witch, witch, where’s the witch?
And I feel it.
My eyes beadily narrow
Peering over my bulbous nose
Shoulders hunching
Toes curl
And I reach for
The broom leaning next
The painter’s cloth
Grabbing on with knobbly fingers
Hurling myself
Out
Of
The door
Their eyes widened
Disbelieving
As they spot me
And thumbs clutched between index fingers
They run
Leaving me cackling
Breathless
While my familiar
Looks up from
Sunning her black self
On the step.
Sep 2, 2009
Sep 2, 2009 at 7:49 PM UTC
If these walls could talk, they’d tell me to stop writing.
To stop hunching myself over a glowing laptop screen for hours at a time,
battering my brain for a story more unique than anyone else’s.
But these walls can’t talk,
so I continue to do this even though I know I shouldn’t.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC
Free. Unrestricted. Unlimited.
The ability to overcome the stares and glares of judgment and see far ahead of and beyond them.
Further than their ignorant minds would ever care to see.
Free like black smoke rising from a stuffy shack on the side of a dirt road.
The freedom that the most free of souls long for.
If Birds were as free they would fly in all directions but the set route of migration.
If paintings were as free they would outgrow the sides of their frames and become their full forms, limbs and smiles included.
If the Nile was as free it would flow like the ocean it looks up to, unshaped by the selfish lips of the forest.
If the Atlantic was as free, waves would wave and remain in mid-air for as long as they wish before hunching their backs to embrace the Inner Sea.
If words were as free, they would reach far beyond the limits of a four cornered space and whisper into the ears of men across oceans.
If you and I were as free, colours would not be afraid to be vibrant. Sound would not be afraid to scream.
If you and I were as free, our arms would always praise the vast Sky. Our teeth would always greet the sun. And even in the worst of pain, our freedom would allow us to let go of our misery.
If we were as free, beauty would no longer hide within the unbreakable walls of a mere bracket.
If we were as free, borders and bridges that fought for centuries to keep us apart would crumble.
If you and I were as free, establishments would not be established for the good of greed, but rather for the good of man.
If you and I were as free, we would fly like magic. We would take over the nation as a nation.
If you and I were as free, stereotypes and prejudices alike would cease to exist. We would live fully, even through the journey of death.
If you and I were FREE, we would be.
If the world was FREE, we would always be.
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 3:35 AM UTC
My joints ache.
They are cold and still,
tired from lack of use.
My joints ache to hold you,
to enfold you into the
cracks between
my bones.
Between my bones there is
space
where you would fit.
My joints ache.
Hunching, they are
crude in contrast,
rough
in comparison to your own.
They creak and groan
as they act out this dance,
almost forgotten steps slow
to form.
My joints
ache.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
Impoverished money grubs sit and revel in their ***** suds
liking the flavors of darkly bubbled mud.
From lovely earth, life debt owned,
even if some still believe in this crud.
Hunching ancient patriots hang western flags
and live by the credo provided, and die by what mind remains undecided.
Here, there, and everywhere lies man in the bush as hunters slouch
gun, weapon fist-ted in bruised and trembling hand.
Tis no wonder, what geometry pierces the chest,
thought choice as if it were only peril.
A cardinal sings whilst losing that rose-colored scintillating ring
one more Orion slacks his belt, never.
Stubborn and mostly blinded another shell blows through creature,
in and out his ******* head, a demonic act of high treason.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
Summer lies while river rats gnaw on posts
weathered from the reverence tides.
Hunching over limestone slate,
picture pissed-eyed states of the caricatures.
Loss of limbs in dissociative fugue.
St. Anthony's fire up along the coast.
Ergot Dreams: Such splendid things!
Waking up in a pool with callosum yarns
spinning words of concern.
And i've come so close
time and time
to find the pinhole tube light.
Words keep seeping out,
I hear my mother holding me here.
Frozen solid.
Stuck in a cot.
Letting the little ******* off his chain just to
hear him stream
How many lives to burn in the ecclesia pyre
while jesus sweeps the remainders
off to sea?
Maybe I have died again,
living in this ferrous skin.
Seeded fledgling after all.
Jul 30, 2014
Jul 30, 2014 at 8:55 PM UTC
I find myself confounded
Playing Contortion with my fingers
and thighs
I widen my eyes
and **** in my cheeks
and smile with the grimace of sleek
I take up my neck
Scrape up my hair, hunching my
shoulders, til my collar bone is bare
I squish in my ****
And I hide my arm fat, pronouncing
my **** by arching my back
but alas
I've shoved my stomach forward
My **** appears flabby, I **** in
the stomach, delay being 'saggy'
again
I've breathed in too far,
now the waist is too large, but outwards
sees the stomach, again, far too large
so I look to my legs
I again perceive dregs, of stretchy
spotty, teenagehood, and the memories
dredge up insecurities
I tiptoe round my vessel with dread
I've thought of every possibility in my head
I've reminded myself of
health
vitality
living
Yet when I stare at the fat
I feel I give myself too much slack
start sieving out imperfections
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC
We don’t usually see each other,
I’m asleep, dreaming myself a superhero, or a maybe a victim
You creep around, so as not to wake me,
envelopment in the warmth that comes from the layers and layers
I have stacked on my body
gently rippling like a sheet in a warm summer breeze.
But occasionally we meet,
my tired eyes still open wide searching for a focus point
my fingers moving lazily across the keyboard
drunk from a mix of one part darkness, three parts chill,
hitting letters to form words in a language I can assume is only understood by gods.
In you creep, slowly growing as the twinkling lights on the sidewalk
blink out,
one
by one,
hiding whatever the darkness holds.
You lose you warmth,
become a ghost passing through and chilling my bones
putting knots in my spine, hunching me over,
my legs become twisted and contorted under me
as you slowly **** the life out of one foot
sticking it with a million little needles
This is your invitation to sleep,
by making consciousness so unbearable
that every blink becomes longer, as if trying to escape whatever reality
I’ve been forced to stay up with this long.
You lay me down, pull up the covers,
holding me gently like a lover
letting me rest
letting me escape
letting me sleep.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 9:05 AM UTC
Sometimes I miss you
I roll over when I wake up
You are never there.
I open my eyes after crying
You are never there.
I sing you songs,
Can you hear me?
You are never here.
I eat so slowly,
Can you tell I am waiting?
My bed is empty,
My stomach is angry,
My heart is jaggedly cut,
I look beautiful on the outside-
My shoulders hunching forward
Hiding the jut of bones that peep from my skin.
You are never here,
But I am waiting.
Sometimes I wonder
Is this
Life's new version of
A Christmas Carol
And this life I am living
Is the ghost of Christmas future?
Can't I wake up
Roll over,
Hold you close.
Tell you I love you,
Apologise for not
Getting you help.
Tell you I listened
And you would never let me go.
One hundred days and I fly away.
I will be so far away
But you
You are never here.
Oct 27, 2012
Oct 27, 2012 at 2:28 AM UTC
which were the center of the Earth.
A rill, a gentle excite that rolled from side to side
touching the verdant moors and bridging the tepid winds
through the mirthy wood.
She
afluntered, pivoting in circles,
pronouncing an aubade for a throng
anthropolatrating agelasts.
Her palms and dactyls outstretched. A chilliad had passed, still her astereognosis never produced the fields and trunks before her. Amending the acronycal light an aeolistic caitiff arose, piercing the crowd, rising to her circumference. This clapperdudgeon and callet woman rang out in a cacophony of sharp jabbering, then another blellum arrived, then another carker, soon they were all cloffin at the pyre.
Her lips
instantly wet, her mouth broke its pursed chastity, and among the meek she suddenly was overcome with an incredible basorexia.
And so she began, bussing left to right, osculating
the buffoons and bavians.
Some cullion tried their way
towards & towards
and then disappeared in a comestion, another dratchell roused himself, sudorous and covered in culch. The concilliabule was dwaible now, those who weren't prying for her kisses were dwaling about frantically croodling, mooing, even barking. This wild frenzied lot of basiation and baisements. Beazing in the dying sun she began to crose and cough. Her blood and spit, her saliva became estiferous and unstable, she began to eroteme herself, her healthy figure was now ectomorphic. Her thoughts were unsettling, she began to fantasize her own decollation. Some sauntering madman with a sleek leather overcoat and an enormous hatchet hunching over her. It overcame her, this auto deicidal ideology in addition, the sweet kir began to wear off, and all she could feel was lackluster, emptiness, indifference. Eventually her acrasia overcame her and in her accidia and overbearing mania she took her own life. Her head slipped from her shoulders and rolled casually past her body, her knees collapsing before her feet, before her torso. And the abderian men and women cackled,
just sat and stared
her life, her love, all gone and disappeared.
Feb 10, 2014
Feb 10, 2014 at 6:36 AM UTC
I tried to look hard
But I’m not really sure
Was it a big black feline
Or a small black primate
I’m sure
Hunching over it was talking to its own exhaustion
Sitting on a wall with a window
With rustic grille
And blue plastic curtain
I’m sure
If it was a big black feline
She was communicating
with her old imaginary friend
And If it was a small black primate
He was homesick
and suppressing his emotions to his solitude
If it was a big black feline
She was pregnant with one’s twins
but carried a torch for someone else
And If it was a small black primate
It was indulged into his melancholy
while slowly moving its tail
But I’m not really sure
Who was more merciless?
The one wearing a sparkly leotard
Waiting eagerly to start spinning
Because that was his only forte
Or the one who wasn’t ashamed at all
To lean her head against the stranger’s shoulder
To fall asleep immediately
And permanently
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 3:04 PM UTC
The light, golden, made you a portrait.
Your hair framed your eyes
and I am captive of your beauty - at
ease with itself.
Hunching over your book,
Your profile turns even more seductive.
Others obscure my sight, and I squirm
to see. To see you read with elegance;
you, who will not fade.
You're clothed in a deep
blue. Like royalty? And, as you sit
and read, I wonder: whose words do you honor?
Inviting them into your dwelling - the chamber of your soul.
Slowly, I rise and walk out - with one last look,
in solitude asking, will this be the last?
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
***Warning: Some bad *** language.***
There's a rabbit in my garden,
Just like in nursury books,
This little bastard's not Peter,
He hasn't Peter's looks.
I admit the ***** looks cute,
But he's not wearing Peter's suit.
This little asshole's wearing fur,
The ******* critter's hunching,
The mother fucker's munching
On all my sweaty work.
My cat's hardly a terrorist,
His name's not Benjamin,
The lazy **** lies in the sun,
His shadow moves more than him.
I could lure him in,
Use arrow and a bow,
Catch and skin
The little ****
To fashion my scarecrow.
I lined the **** in crosshairs,
He lifts and sniffs the air,
As if he sensed a certain fear
Impending doom was near.
I thus approached,
We both stood there,
There's something about him
We both shared,
As if we were a pair.
I did the same,
When I was young,
I thought the world
Was mine for free,
And gathered all my oysters.
His innocence
Wasn't lost on me.
Hold on,
This tale's not quite done.
The oyster fucker's still in my garden.
The **** can live,
But must stay out,
I spread blood meal about.
And gathered all my oysters
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 7:41 PM UTC
Long ginger muzzle
eyes burning
through the copse, fixed upon
the snuffling vole eating
grubs in the moonlight,fangs
like stunted darning needles
revealed in its widening jaw.
hunching in the grass
it crawled cautiously forward
and pounced
like a god on an acolyte
quenching blood-lust-
the fox ate again that night.
Aug 19, 2016
Aug 19, 2016 at 5:53 PM UTC