"hunk" poems
my mind is
a big hunk of irrevocable nothing which touch and
taste and smell and hearing and sight keep hitting and
chipping with sharp fatal tools
in an agony of sensual chisels i perform squirms of
chrome and execute strides of cobalt
nevertheless i
feel that i cleverly am being altered that i slightly am
becoming something a little different, in fact
myself
Hereupon helpless i utter lilac shrieks and scarlet
bellowings.
68.5k
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...
*that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows the when and why of differing
cuddling styles...
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who knows when to leave a man alone
alone in his man-mourning time,
distance needed,
letting his ex-rage dissipate or
watching his red and blue football
redefine ignominy...
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when the man low whistles, eyes adrift,
she heartily agrees and is
reciprocity rewarded regularly
with hunk alerts of
"hey-check-him-out!"
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
a tigress in the bedroom
she asking, try this, I'll love it,
served with a desert demo of awkward afterward,
his less-than-perfect cuddling abilities
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who doesn't abhor partner silences,
comforting they are, in their own ways,
lying side by side, interrupted only by peccadillo body noises unexpected and
sheepish apologies and loving arm stroking
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
who lets the man roar, top of voice,
when imprisoned in car,
his voice, un enfant terrible,
performs with Creedence Clearwater
a sing-a-long in traffic, asking
"Have you ever seen the rain"
while amidst Israel-leaving-Egypt
Sunday beach traffic on the L.I.E.
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
when it's pheromones alternative mode day,
he celebrates Carole King day,
she demonstrates her cuddling abilities,
par excellence, with kisses and tissues
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities...
a woman, plain confident in her abilities
no matter the situational status,
when confronted by
less-than-crazy-impetuous,
she smiling says "why not,"
when he proposes,
a movie and dinner in a fav haunt?
"plenty excellent enough" her answer,
spoke in a rising voice
full of unfeigned delight
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
accepting the unexpected airport embrace
on a moving sidewalk, unexpected delays
with the aplomb of a well lived life's
long term sustainability perspective
when he kisses her hand for no reason,
while driving 75 miles per hour,
she only winces internally,
the other hand vise-grasping
the other door's handle,
who brushes hair wisps in a dark movie,
celebrating her Bathsheba Everdeen's
duality of strength and tenderness
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when on second date he proposes
a non-exclusive relationship,
confident enough to high-five respond,
and laugh about it,
seven years on
a woman, confident in her cuddling abilities,
that when she reads it,
analyzing the oeuvre as
"too **** personal and
as usual
too **** long"*
that's all any man wants,
a woman, confident in her
cuddling abilities
in everything...
even a little occasional criticism
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
Dating gay guys works
For women now and then.
You might end up dating them
Over and over again.
Many are good dancers
And dress in current style.
And while you won’t get laid
You’ll have fun for a while.
After dating all those jerks
You’ll surely wonder why
You never had the idea of
Going out with a gay guy.
You can dress pretty and
Never need to wear a mask.
He won’t make a move on you
No matter how you ask.
Dating gay guys works
For women and gay men.
You might end up dating them
Over and over again.
Many are good dancers
And dress in current style.
And while you won’t get laid
You’ll have fun for a while.
Your girlfriends will see you
With a guy who is lava hot.
And if he isn’t to femmy
They won’t ask whether or not.
They’ll just see you at bars
And dancing the night away.
They’ll never think to ask
If that big hunk is gay.
Dating gay guys works
For women and gay men.
You might end up dating them
Over and over again.
Many are good dancers
And dress in current style.
And while you won’t get laid
You’ll have fun for a while.
And the girl talk you can have
About all the smoking guys
About their gorgeous bodies
Their smiles and their eyes.
If you pick the right guy
You can find out right away
Which other guys in the club
Are actually secretly gay.
Dating gay guys works
For women and gay men.
You might end up dating them
Over and over again.
Many are good dancers
And dress in current style.
And while you won’t get laid
You’ll have fun for a while.
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 8:26 PM UTC
loaded with her weekly shop
outside the doors at asda
***** **** that never let
opportunity go passed her
hello big boy
she stroked his cheek
my bags are heavy
knees are weak
i lift dumbells
night and day
giss ya shopping
lead the way
i've got an itchy *****
and i've got the horn
do you want to see it?
you **** hunk of brawn
you'll have to show me luv
it's hard for me to see
those ****** japanese cars
look all the same to me
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 1:26 AM UTC
I walked along this path through the trees
Lo and behold, I fell on my knees
For what do I see, but this vision of beauty
**** no, tis a hunk, boy was he a cutie
His muscles well oiled, as he flexed before me
My heart all a flutter, knew not how to be
So what do I do, shall I play the shy dame?
Or should I strip naked regardless of shame.
A moment had passed, I planned what to do
Despite the feeling that I knew I would rue
I walked to this god, who stood still as I watch
Looked into his eyes, as my hand grabbed his crotch
“how dare you ****** me! I’m a woman of grace!”
“you shall not demean me, no shame I will face!”
And so I turned to walk away
I would not let this man ever sway
To let me lose the virtue I gained
Despite my desire, oh how I have pained
I turned my head to take one more look
So many I’ve shunned, I could write a book
The doubt in my head took hold of me
And doubled my pace, so that I may be free
…..then I went to the 7 eleven to buy batteries
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
It was the time of summer where every kid had silently realized that it was ending,
No longer halfway through, no longer half full
Leaking and spilling out,
like the gas in my twenty two year old car
We couldn’t stop it,
And the moments of high school summertime
The moments that supposedly turn into stories we tell forever
Hadn’t seemed to have happened.
Both of us on the swing lazily swung
Dizzily from side to side.
Climbing forward, falling in reverse
Our combined bodyweight shifting back and forth
Tanned legs kicking up in an attempt at unison on every backwards glide.
Gravity hung us there,
Pulling the swing toward the ground no matter the rotation.
I sat on top.
I wore bleached shorts and bleached hair.
I worried that gravity or more so my value to it
would crush him.
At the same time, I felt unbelievably small.
The air pressed in on me from all angles,
it touched my bare legs
it easily waffled my shirt.
“Mel, if you were squishing me, I would let you know”,
he assured with a cocky tone of his very own that somehow made me feel special.
I couldn’t help but think he was only trying to be tough
Attempting to let sheer willpower overweigh my well earned quads,
My six foot frame.
The awkward body I never quite grew into
Never knew how to masterfully control
Never knew how to fill.
Though I secretly (wanted to) truly believe him
On this humid night I felt like the ball was in my court,
Like I could do anything and everything.
That nothing could go wrong
That the boy that I was sitting on was genuine
And that I could simply drive off to wherever.
(I had a full tank of gas and enough money to get me to Alabama).
I felt small in this,
in this infinity of possibility all around me.
Like a weight was pushing into me
Putting on pressure that couldn’t be ignored
That shrunk me just enough.
I felt powerless to fate
Powerless to this planet
To this grand, glorified hunk of earth which was so much greater than me
(and surely my insignificant weight anxieties).
I felt like the gas was leaking out faster than I could use it.
I felt like my infinity was disappearing as I swung within it.
Just like that, I let the ball drop and the gas leak out.
We just kept swinging.
Laughing,
Wasting,
Talking,
Dying.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 10:16 PM UTC
And now that its over
i'll never be sober
your lips
make me drunk
just like your hips
make me feel like a hunk
the liquor flowing through both our veins
making it forget all our pain
stabbing ourselves like hidan
i'll never forget being cheated on
So I sit here,
not alone
I have her,
the bottle that
won't let me stay sober
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 11:07 PM UTC
Roosevelt was worth 6, 7 million dollars
He was Tight
Frog waits
Till poor fly
Flies by
And then they got him
The pool of clear rocks
Covered with vegetable ****
Covered the rocks
Clear the pool
Covered the warm surface
Covered the lotus
Dusted the watermelon flower
Aerial the Pad
Clean queer the clear
blue water
AND THEN THEY GOT HIM
The Oil of the Olive
Bittersweet taffies
Bittersweet cabbage
Cabbage soup made right
A hunk a grass
Sauerkraut let work
in a big barrel
Stunk but Good
4.3k
Peanut Butter and Jam
I like peanut butter, I like toast with jam
don't care too much for brocolli on a stick
or a hunk of liver that's really thick
I really like swiss cheese on ham
dont like the spill of oil, don't like it one **** bit
like the smile of small young child with their mother
that is a smile that is like no other
hated wrestling getting my face in the arm pit
loved coping a buzz and hearing music from a live band
loved the feel of my loved ones soft lips on mine
its cool watching old movies about Franenstien
always liked everything I tasted with the Nestles brand
I hate wars and senseless killing it just makes no ******* sense
I don't like it when my jockey shorts ride up my crack
I get jealous of someones fame when I think they are a hack
I look at my final desitination with no false pretense
going to the moon would be such a spiritual thing
meeting my president would be such a special honor
it would be fun playing tennis with Jimmy Connor
how I would love to be on stage with friends and sing
wish I could have met Jesus Christ the man
his mistreatment on any level was way to cruel
if I drink to much I have a tendency to drool
hey remember the Nanny her name was Nan
the Little Rascals were such silly kids,
their Woman Haters Club was such a fake
now how long does it take to bake a cake
too sad when once famous people hit the skids
why does everything taste like chicken fried
will this world recover from the financial woes
will the hopes of all the poor ones in back rows
I thought of death and then I cried
now the words can flow freely for this is who I am
I will never be rich or famous my shoulder I will lend
I will always be here if you are in need of a friend
yes I really really love peanut butter and jam
Gomer Lepoet...
Jun 29, 2010
Jun 29, 2010 at 4:06 AM UTC
She dragged a steak knife
across her forehead.
I said,
What the **** is your--
Hey, we all have problems.
She killed herself with
the memory
of a system.
Everyone was begging.
Beg. Beg. Beg.
Make me a star!!
I want to be
Kurt Cobain!!
So, they dragged blades
and did smack.
Tweeted lyrics
and took selfies
with a poster of--
But she was never alive, right?
There can't be a her
if there's a me.
But I suppose what it condensed
is bound to
shoot out into
itty
bitty
stars.
Good ******* Christ,
redeem the men and women
slaughtering genitals.
Grinding against
the hole in society.
Are you ******* serious?
Oh my god,
I will die if he takes off
his skin!!
What a hunk.
It was all elaborate
and people were saying
"droll".
That's a thing.
Everyone was ******* lame.
Then, the men stripped.
One, Jupiter.
One, Titan.
And what was stopped
was a hurried whisper,
traveling the confines
of the classroom.
And the men
clothed. And the instruments
unused.
Sketches ceased before creation.
Paint without purpose.
What a Greek tragedy.
Boo-fucking-hoo.
What I could only imagine
a slurry of too many words
aiming at my brain.
The mention of us all.
You don't understand.
**** you.
She dragged a steak knife
across her forehead.
I said,
What the **** is your problem?
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
So this is what it's like when best friends come to an end?
A empty feeling and in disarray
Disillusioned and feeling a stray
You choose to a terminal fate for us because you choose a hunk lust
What will you do when your emotions run and bust?
You will seek a new me but you will still be on cust
I won't rust but will still shine like a new dime
This time it's real, I know you know this deal
So as I seal away this chapter of blight
I hope you enjoy the night and the rest of your life
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 7:53 PM UTC
The tiny, black transistor, three wires,
One two three, ramrod straight get bent,
Quarter-inch strain, needle-nose pliers and it's broken.
Instructions: look, ask what "install"
Means: to bend the leads, push in, solder
Tightly and well, no crossing, to the board.
Lumps all over the green circuit board,
Yellow blue black etc., flip-side wires
Cut short, little silver domes of solder
With the leads set up just right, bent
Just right to stay in when you flip it over to install
Them so they don't fall out, but lost is better than broken.
The one transistor, Q1, J310, broken,
Lying against the also-black of the countertop, board
Loudly near, demanding, "Just install
It already, ****** Just the two of three wires
On the Q1, last one lying lonely bent
Crying out, hollering, screaming for solder.
Look at the one straight piece of solder,
Two leads protruding from one hole, broken
Off by careless, melting hands, left stranded on the board,
Cut off from the spool, low melting point, easily bent.
It looks just like "one of the boys," the real wires.
Copper wires conduct well, very ductile and easy to install.
When you are attempting this, to install
Everything in its place (and there is one), beware excess solder;
Too much crosses from hole to hole, uniting two wires,
Shorting it out and leaving you drifting with a broken,
Useless green hunk of circuitry and electronics (a board,
A dead board), which is just as useless as your leads which are too bent.
Some of these **** parts come pre-bent
(Why not each?), real easy to slide in and install,
Just bend slightly after sliding into the board,
Slightly enough to hold for the solder
Which is to come, assuming it's not broken
Yet, and that yours are still whole wires.
On the back, at the end, identical dots of solder
Run the length of the board. If it's not broken,
Run a current through; see if you get a shock by the wires.
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 10:54 AM UTC
You are like a beauty contest
Where nobody is keeping score.
The clothes make you beautiful
But I like you naked even more.
You’re a hot hunk of manhood
From your hairline to your boots
And you look a lot better naked
Than some men look in suits.
Yeah, I have to admit it here
It was your looks caught my eye
But as time went by I discovered
There was much more to you, guy.
There’s poetry and wit and then
That ever present sense of fun.
At first it was just infatuation;
A fan sitting close to the stage.
But later it turned into something
Beyond a **** picture on a page.
I found out there was more to you
Than the beauty that stops hearts.
There is something special there
That sets you delightfully apart.
So, I hope I can be forgiven
For being such a rabid fan.
I have excellent taste in things
Like the looks of a hot man.
I have heard so many call you
One hot, **** son of a gun.
Of the members of your fan club
I’m sure I am your number one.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
Lying alone doing nothing on my bed,
I decided to write about you instead
Looking back to where it started
Now, it clutters again inside my head.
I remember, yes dear, it was Christmas
And I got no intentions for an us
Back then, I was just a simple grown up lass
But everything changed with that simple favor to you, I asked
After you responded, that ends there really.
And I'm sure, it's not just you who I asked, see?
You're just someone, and I'm not even being friendly
But a spark out of nowhere ignited unexpectedly
It took a couple of months for me to realize
Talking to you suddenly felt so nice
I'm even daydreaming you and I in paradise
In this dull world of mine, indeed, you added some spice
Late night conversations eventually came into place
We shared to each one the dreams we want to chase
Just in case I'm one of your dreams, you'll have me apace
Wondering what will my future with you, if ever, taste?
Believe it or not, my deep affections for you grew
Even if we don't converse, I, now, begin and end my days with thoughts of you.
I don't know what fantasy have I indulged myself into
But whatever it is, what I feel is sincerely true
Just so you know, it feels good to write about you, even just your name.
Oh Dear... can't you feel a thing?
Can't you see the fluttery in my heart that you bring?
I badly want to hear that you feel the same
Mr. Down to earth hunk, I'm clueless but hopeful
And I tell you these words with candour
You are one eye-catching beautiful creation --- that's one of the things I praise God for.
And to me, you bring happiness galore.
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 1:24 AM UTC
break the poem
open like a pomegranate
spill the seeds
squeeze the juice
and
**** the flesh
when we were kids
we played in
mother's garden:
carrots, strawberries,
rhubarb, tomatoes,
plums, raspberries,
cucumbers, pumpkins,
green beans, watermelon,
onions, potatoes
and
a goldfish named Pierre
he died after
my parents
cleaned his tank
and didn't rinse
it properly
done in by soap--
life can be such a
fragile thing sometimes
we buried him
in the garden
and marked his
grave with a
smooth river stone
one summer
we picked a great
big watermelon
from its dirt nap;
heavy as a bowling
ball and green
as a cat's eye
we heaved it onto
the picnic table
and carved it into
smaller
and smaller wedges
until each one
of us was holding
our very own
chunk of melon
everyone dug in
after admiring their
piece for a moment;
eating it with
their eyes
before their
mouths
but as I went
to bite into mine
I noticed a seed
in the way
so I peeled
at it to free it
and as I fingered
the dripping flesh
of the fruit
the 'seed' revealed
itself to be
not a seed at all
but the eye
of a goldfish
staring back at me
lodged in the melon
in its death throws
gasping for
breath in the
open air
its mouth opening
and closing like
it had a secret
to tell
I stood there
in stupefaction
when suddenly
it slipped free of
its womb
and landed in the grass
behind me
but when I
turned around
to retrieve it
I couldn't find it
there was no goldfish
anywhere in that yard
I checked under
my feet
under the picnic table--
under other people's
feet--nothing
"what are you
looking for?" someone
asked
"nothing," I said,
because who
would've believed it
anyway?--I'm not
even sure if I did--
"just thought I dropped
something."
I stood back up
feeling different
about the world--
like the mystery
ran deeper than any
of us realize--
looked at
my hunk of fruit
and discovered
I wasn't hungry
anymore
so I put
it down on
the picnic table
and walked over
to Pierre's grave
there, underneath
that river stone,
was a watermelon seed
just beginning to
sprout
I smiled in
bewilderment
and gently covered
it with fresh soil
moving the stone
a few centimeters
off the sprouting seed
'Pierre, the watermelon
fish,' I thought--
wiping the dirt
from my hands--
'I wonder what
death has in store
for me?'
Mar 13, 2021
Mar 13, 2021 at 9:45 AM UTC
Like sugar from a shaker, snow falls on Saul the baker
delivering steamy biscuits from the shop he calls his home
to a drafty run down mansion where the princess on her pension
can be testy with her tension, hence she's living on her own.
Today he took her order, "One fresh bagel, for a quarter
'cause I haven't seen the likes of one since I left my childhood home".
Well he'd never baked a bagel, but he's not one to finagle
and wanting just to please her, finds a recipe from Rome.
And he's thinking to himself, "I must be way out of mind~
no woman's gonna want a baker's life"
but he carries deep inside his heart, the will to be a friend
hoping someday she will come around and one day be his wife.
So to win her deep affection he packs up his best confection
takes his chances on the back roads, now iced over in the storm.
Finds her waiting in the foyer with her thrifty 5 cent lawyer
complaining 'bout the day old bread and... "this bagel isn't warm!"
So..... he heats it on the fire, 'cause her heart is his desire
but she won't accept the bagel for it's not quite the right form
And he's thinking to himself, "I must be way out of mind
no woman gonna want a baker's life"
but he carries deep inside his heart, the will to be a friend
hoping someday she will come around and one day be his wife.
So he runs back to his bagel board and pounds the dough and rolls a cord
and shapes the perfect circle to a bagel lovers dream,
He boils and then he bakes it and to her mansion then he takes it
piping hot but now she wants it with churned butter from fresh cream!
Well he's starting to get antsy but he knows the farmer, Clancy
whose butter is fresh-churned and known by counties far and wide.
He heads out to the pasture and he buys what he is after
and returns to find, 'tis so unkind, the princess, she had died.
The baker in his stricken state swallows the bagel off the plate
he calls the cops, pulls out the stops and serves the day old bread.
He gives the details more than once of how he ate the evidence
and though he thought his story bought, they arrested him instead.
"Tis a likely story", was the only thing he heard
although they'd bought his baked goods, they could not buy his word.
"The Baker is a Butcher", is what the tabloid said,
"better to take your bagel cold than take it in the head."
But all was not as it appears, she owed the butcher in arrears
and when they went to check her craw they found a hunk of mutton.
It ended all without a trial, the butcher he did reconcile
and posted "Pay the butcher now and do not to be a glutton."
And Saul was thinking to himself, " I must be way out of mind",
no woman's gonna want a baker's life",
but he carried deep inside his heart the will to be a friend
and it turned rather nicely as she willed him in the end.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
Ever wondered about my style?
What I admire and what I deem vile?
Well, gather around, I'll let you see
Who I am, through what else, but poetry?
My favorite flower is a cherry blossom.
As for food, bread is awesome.
I spend much of my time on Twitter.
I like birds, the ones that flutter.
My favorite author is Ms. Anne Rice.
Her book, "Memnoch" is very nice.
My favorite poet is Aleister Crowley.
As for artist, that would be Dali.
I like Reggae straight from Trenchtown.
Most of all, I like System of a Down.
Philip Wesley is my favorite composer.
If I may be so bold, Chopin, move over.
My favorite film is Sweeney Todd.
By my top director, who is slightly odd.
Johnny Depp is my favorite actor and hunk.
I'm not a fan of touchdowns and dunks.
A big interest is Nutrition and Health.
I'm against Corporations and Banks, with all their wealth.
I like Documentaries and things that make me think.
Carrot juice is one of my favorite things to drink.
My favorite painting hangs on my wall.
The artist or name, I have not a clue at all.
I like eating cherries and playing pretend.
I like talking to those I consider a friend.
I like dancing at raves, even on the stage.
I like my job, though it's minimum wage.
I'm good without gods, I bow to none.
No political party, with that, I'm done.
That about sums me up, I hope you see
My likes and interests described to a tee,
In the fashion of the rhyme scheme A and B.
Did I mention the fact that I write poetry?
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:34 PM UTC
I want to lay in a hammock,
feeding my fat *** which never looks out of shape
no matter how many deep fried treats I feed it.
I want a sensual message
from a hunk who's always seen and never heard,
eager to please and good on his knees,
and also good with a hammer.
I want to kiss personal responsibility goodbye,
with a sip of a have-you-tried-this daiquiri,
wearing a mocha it's-my-birthday bikini.
©Copyright 2014 Written and Edited by Racquel Davis
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 11:38 AM UTC
The rain splutters at me in foreign tongue
As my mind hurdles under a mushroom
Shelter from the pelting lashes
Of nostalgic memory
Such vulnerable home from woes
Like a rodent hole in flooding summer
They tell me I am a finicky rat
That will not survive outside Sakubva
Ratatat-tatatatat-tart!
Oh but how true!
Each day I walk out in the morning
Come evening I pick every footprint I left
Back home
Prompted by need to use my footprints
Once more
Take care!
The radio blares
Save save save save
The television frowns
Wise up
Recycle is the trick in these hard times
Discarded beliefs, discarded memories, discarded tastes
Can be recycled
Recycled dreams, recycled husband, recycled wife...
I scrap my bottom in amazement
After all there is always a grain of virtue left
In what we discard -
O how I love the scent
God has made it that way
That each time you ****
Before you go
You save a nostalgic glance at your ****
Suppressing a sense of loss
For a part of you left behind
Like kites tied to strings we are
We regale in our false splendour
At time's mercy
The fruits of mental ************
Deflowered by new ****** worlds
Of lewd dreams in striking G-Strings
Gyrating ***** of fantastic insanity
That lure us
Into the heavy -bosomed clouds
Pregnant with cultural retribution
For the anarchy coursing our veins
Like the burning pain on my back
Each evening when I bend double
To pick up and bag my footprints
I left in the morning
This is not madness
When I tell you to let your beak
Of tolerance peck and peck
On your ****
What difference is there
Between **** in your belly and
**** steaming betwixt your legs?
What difference is home
When you are young and when old?
Riding on the back of butterfly dreams
When I am a newborn macho
In the bullring of entrepreneurship
Or O such cosmopolitan hunk
In the realm of fashion and modelling...
Sounds like sheltering under a mushroom
That springs and dazzles but a day
Hope I will hurtle back
Hope sweet home, home sweet home
I am a finical rat
That won't live away from home.
-dougwa-
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:21 AM UTC
a drunken **** head knocking my door
a glimpse through my window my eyes saw more
a bald headed hunk covered in ink
heart beating so fast i couldnt think.
a drunken **** head coming inside
that wolvo accent helping me to decide
a kiss to my lips sealing my fate
an overnight stay by now it was too late.
two weeks of pure bliss passed so fast
gossiping folk saying we wouldnt last
soon there will be violence i heard them say
hiding their heads and shuffling away.
so what if hes commited violence before
hes with me now and i mean more
hes always assured me that hed never hurt me
his past is his past and that they will soon see.
friends in for drinks and that was the first time
me pulling faces getting ****** on red wine
but the ******* he saw me a reflection in glass
a punch to my nose i fell on my ****
apologies kisses sorries never ending
me knowing it wont happen again or pretending
waking in the mornings treading on eggshells
me with experiance i should have known so well.
but do we learn women like us
hearing their words and giving our trust
thinking things will get better in time
when do we stop and draw a line.
broken cheek bones two black eyes
split open lips ****** thighs
bruises covering the surface skin
enternal bruising hiding within.
pregnant with your gorgeous son
look at what ive now become
trapped indoors head hangs in shame
its not my fault its you whos to blame.
all i done wrong was to show you love
you the man needed boxing gloves
to keep me tame and where you wanted me
under control to prove your credibility.
Sep 28, 2010
Sep 28, 2010 at 7:27 AM UTC
Hans was outside himself. Perched on the edge of a daydream, he looked below, distantly aware of his bustling dinner table. How casually they live, Hans thought; with what feigned clarity they can connect and understand. There were his brothers and sisters; his aunts, uncles, cousins and ah—there was his father. Look at him personifying repugnance, locks of hair falling clumsily on his tattered shirt. Look at him! (Hans could yell only in silence.) Look there and see him cloyingly preparing his knife to hunt, to tear, to slice yet another hunk of meat for his own gluttony. With what excitement—what vivid, forbidden ecstasy Hans would take his father’s knife and turn the hunter into the hunted.
Somewhere in the cluttered abyss there was a sound followed by a warming light. Hans was entranced. And again, a gentle thunder followed by a thread of heat connecting for a moment earth and sky, father, family, and son.
It was goodness and caring, it was a mother’s voice. It was this graceful fluttering in the medium of time that awoke a primitive yearning in Hans, grabbed his throat and stared him lustily in the eyes. What could it be? Hans wondered aloud, what could it be that she desires, for he already knew that he had to be the one to deliver any object she longed for, to slay any beast that tormented her—it had to be him, to be Hans, to be her son.
Please, she said; can someone please pour me a glass of water. Oh how Hans was enraged to find that this whim had not been made solely of a son. It was his right to quench his mother’s thirst; it was his place within the natural order to satisfy her needs. What cruelty and ice! Hans said, but also felt; and in an instant returned to himself below, tumbling violently from the high canopy of his trance to the sight of his father’s filthy hand reaching for the water jug.
In base impulse, Hans jabbed at the jug, forcibly pushing aside the carnal hand. Upon contact, Hans felt an overwhelming calm, an absolute peace. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the handle, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply. At once he was joyous, he was spent; he was adrenalized and gloriously dominant. He would be the one to tend to the maternal flower, supplying water for a thirst that he prayed would always be there.
Mar 22, 2011
Mar 22, 2011 at 1:39 PM UTC
Cars going on one by one,
All in monotone and all banal,
Together to one destination, nowhere, population 4,000,000
Black, Blue, Green, Red, White, Silver, Orange, Pink, Purple and Yellow make a rainbow of metal,
Pollution, Pollution that is what there causing with their smoke and fumes out of the car
All One hunk of Traffic
Sep 8, 2014
Sep 8, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
flithy fresh
tattered *****
trash talkin ****
got a gimp limp
front tooth chipped
got chip dip on my lip
dont even tip
take a sip out of your drink at the club
scrub but your girlfriend love me
im a sleezeball
a goofie kid that usually uses roofies but
passes out before they kick in
im a mess
Gutter Crunk
Regular Gutter punk
snatched up your junk
and made myself a nice hunk of doe
so now im driving drunk smashin yard gnomes
blowin whippets to the dome
up inside your home
eating all your food and smashing your ***
Nov 16, 2010
Nov 16, 2010 at 10:59 AM UTC