"leaner" poems
(Warning: This poem has been de-activated on another site. You must be 18 yrs. old to read this; although we were only 15 then)
Way back then,
When we were
Post-pubescent
Boys,
We sat in a circle,
Not a **** ring,
And rhymed our things
Like this:
You make my **** rock;
You make my thing sing;
You make my **** stink;
You make my log throb;
You make my stick thick;
You make my chub rub;
You make my ******* long;
You make my stump jump;
You make my pole roll;
You make my wiener leaner;
You make my bone moan;
You make my man stand;
You make my limp primp;
You make my rod applaud;
You make my spear smear;
You make my peter sweeter;
You make my one eye cry.
And all in unison:
You make my hard on.
We'd continue with our lines,
Til the case was as empty
As our rhymes.
Them there days of simple joys,
Post pubescent
Boys with toys.
Jan 5, 2015
Jan 5, 2015 at 11:04 AM UTC
What is going on with this ****** up superiority?
Discriminating because I am some kind of cultural minority
Acting like you trust me when the two of us are together
But when your friends come around you run off to something better
To all of society you pretend you're not smoking your ****
When you roll your joint you're high just like me
Eating dinner with your parents you talk like a ******
On the weekends, though, you give in to teenage urging
If only you would take off that mask and see,
That when it comes down to it you're no different than me.
We breathe the same air,
though yours may cost more
And when we go to school
we walk through the same doors
Maybe your hair is more blond
And your nails are a little cleaner,
Or you play fancy sports,
So you look a little leaner
I don't have a credit card,
or hang out at the country club
I work for what I want
And am proud of my pay stubs
So, have some consideration, it's not really that tough
We all know your life is easy, but some people have it rough.
If only we could learn that empathy is the goal
Maybe you could act like you actually have a soul.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 11:11 PM UTC
Ballerina stance leaner
porcelain poised demeanor
lined up for a chance at that old 500 gram repeater.
Yeah, a little firecracker,
a little fire eater.
Twiggy figure, ****** fire dome where her little wires teeter.
Excellent muse material
my ***** optics viewed ethereal
Beauty, and she knew it.
Arrogance.
Noted, duly.
Pittsburgh's resident fire ant, with a grace to match her face
And a whole crew of troglodytes racing to get a taste
So thanks Angela Chase;
I prefer the fantasy too.
And thanks to you my chickens won't be sleeping easy in their coup.
Loop Jabberwocky with Calligraphy
and dabbled in polygamy. purpose:
****** cyst bubbles to the surface.
Misinterpret the tongue touching and hand clutching,
you were baby girlie thumb-sucking
But thought more than twice about it when it came to dumb-fucking.
Pretty face: check
Depression: not yet
Appreciating phonemes, but still a nervous wreck
false carrot tops to bed, awkward with the ***** work.
Near waif redhead. Pittsburgh Boys. the city lurks
It's been a minute since the girl scouts got at me, I bought it.
Hop in the DeLorean tell Lauren that I'm off it.
Mar 16, 2010
Mar 16, 2010 at 2:47 PM UTC
I’m singing the blues
Saying good bye to my shoes
The red patent high heels
With the shine that appeals
The shoes that made me feel hot
Whether I looked it or not
Made me walk with a wiggle
Made my back side jiggle
Gave me a **** demeanour
Made my legs feel leaner
Helped me walk tall
On the days I felt small
The same red shoes, so sweet
That are now tight on my feet
Which squash my big toe
And somehow, they know
That I’ve got dickie knees
So I’ll never wear skis
Not to mention arthritic hips
Which cause a total eclipse
When I bend over
And moreover
I walk just like I’ve got off my horse
So I’ve got to bid farewell, of course
Part company with my lovely red shoes
That is why I’m singing the blues
…..They should sell on ebay pretty quick
….. I’ll spend the money on a walking stick
©Nicki Tilston
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 9:13 PM UTC
The chilly camp-like home where I was staying,
had no running water, in winter all shut down,
but had—amplitudinous electric.
I must have been thinking extra sharp that morning,
when to electric stovetop I came; soon had boiling
Cumberland Farm’s bottled water
in a copper *** with four brown eggs.
With careful timing at last I took the four eggs out
and with the heated water applying
Barbasol and razor, so I shaved.
*Please take care to not spill a single drop
of soapy water into the winterized drain pipe,*
I heard in my head my sage sister say.
I discarded the contents of the ***
into a snowy patch.
Good morning, and happy happy, I sang.
I hefted one oak log onto a dying fire.
Two of the four eggs I ate,
saving the last for leaner days.
So complete--eggs
and hot shave breakfast.
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 12:35 PM UTC
Down fickle street
they ride jalopy's just for fun.
Hoot at the cyclist , gerrymander the Vue.
I spy grief hurtling down,
plume grey from the exhaust.
We're no wiser, no leaner
ingesting your worn speed pedals
bravo.
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
I've been told
that I'm built like a fencepost
Kind of wiry
A few knobs here and there
A knot or two for character
I make a pretty good fence
Good at keeping things inside
Not letting things out
But now my shadow seems leaner
Not quite as tall in the morning sun
The soil around my feet eroding
Drying out isn't all it's cracked up to be
Staying straight ain't easy
The herd is getting restless
And the barbed wire on my back
is tearing me up inside.
r ~ 7/25/14
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
Who and Where in the World is Shaunna Harper?
A young poetess here at HP, a story teller, herein a Mashup, excerpts from her writings. Do not overlook her...
You hold your breath,
stagnant, absent
in the station,
trains grumbling about leaving
and about waiting,
people passing, chattering
about nothing
they are actually thinking about;
*** cheap wine, finances,
time, romances and of course,
the weather.
You stand on the platform
between two trains,
puffing fumes and
oil from its brains.
In your throat
somewhere
you mime the sounds
of a goodbye speech,
the silent, strained
words false even in
unspoken terms,
the ever-after of remorse,
the frailty of indecision.
I am somewhere either in the woods,
walking in the enormity of your shoes,
or in the water, making feeble shapes,
hoping to find you in the blue.
Not a child, ill with misfortune.
One of a kind, she dances
to her own gypsy tune,
free, enviable, fresh
to ears and eyes, not used,
like you or me,
or abused, immune to lies.
I am heading for a shock.
I am leaving home and arriving
only God knows where,
bags empty, head full,
and the place my roots took hold
is never going to look the same.
The win is not important,
only the playing of the game,
and the rules have been rewritten.
With every step covered,
I am someone else, somewhere else,
and only the disorientation remains.
I cannot make up my mind
from my dreams.
Chasing planes from buses
to cleaner places
better places
leaner places
the brittle, broken
fingernails chewed
to fray the anxiety.
America, I’m on my way.
Bury me in your deserts,
throw me to your cities
let my future do what it will
in its own sweet time.
Give me my fury.
Keep me swinging.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC
The sheets were soft and crumpled underneath my back and my mind was wandering even though this wasn’t the time for that, and I thought about how much I always loved the feeling of bare skin against sheets, year round, even when it was far too cold for it to be a reasonable thing to do. There’s something **** about just being naked, as simplistic as it sounds. With only his skin, my hair, and the sheets touching my body, I felt exposed but I also felt strong, which was an interesting mix of emotions. I knew I should have been more fixated on what was going on (he certainly was) but I always feel somewhat disconnected from my body and having someone else touch it made it feel even more foreign. It wasn’t unpleasant to have his hands all over me, maybe just a little disappointing and I suddenly wanted to push him off me and go for a walk outside where the air could fill my lungs. Stuffy. It was stuffy in his room, I thought. The distinctly boyish smell of deodorant and sweat mingled with the fake perfume of the candle I remembered to bring and it was was suffocating me. Outside, I could hear his little brother playing loudly in the yard and I wanted to be a little kid again but instead I was inside in a darkened room doing things that seemed too adult for my body and things I used to tell myself I would never do. I liked his brother; he was a sweet kid and last spring I took him to the park a few times when the older boy on top of me had work at the bodega down the street. It felt ***** to hear his childish yells and I wanted more than ever to leave, but the strange more-than-friends relationship with this boy meant that he wanted this once in a while and I liked him more than I had admitted to anyone yet. The cracks in his ceiling were familiar to me by now and once, after we--fucked? made love? I still didn’t know what to call it-- he told me that the first night I came over, drunk and crying, he had to run to peel off the glow in the dark stars that had still been up, a remnant from his childhood, and I found this endearing and I had kissed him again for that. One of his hands was running through my hair now and I stroked his chest, which was leaner and tanner than my bluish-white hands. In the back of my mind I thought I might love him but it could have been his body between my thighs. I could never be sure.
Feb 22, 2014
Feb 22, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC
the half-life of a resolution
~for maaidah durrani~
“your words really spoke to me and
i deeply encourage you to write more”
<•>
any resolution
barely lasts to the completion of its
flyby, tower-buzzing,
razzmatazz appearance,
colliding with the wall called
not today a/k/a,
tomorrow
tomorrow takes the lead pole position,
the conditional timing prepositional,
the delaying exscual misanthropic of
but one more,
whatever, it’ll keep for 24 more,
holding out the pretense of hope
for the resolute dissolute
sure, for sure, tomorrow,
will dissolve regret
tomorrow will write of poetry
but not a poem,
tomorrow will swear my
resolutions will be enacted
or, at least,
erased and re-written,
the oldest first when
re-added to the top of the list
tomorrow
will honor thy request
keep on writing for I’m no fool,
1200 plus poems, I’m yet a novitiate
I will keep your request as
one I’ve can never
cross off my life’s list
but tomorrow’s resolve,
be a better man,
leaner, briefer, kinder, a better lover,
sadly
the list has overrun the white pad,
the blue lines refuse another resolu....
Feb 25, 2018
Feb 25, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC
I tried to run away to a far away land,
where the grass was greener,
and the responsibilities leaner.
I ran from the ghosts,
I ran to foggy coasts.
I ran from the memories.
I ran from our mistakes.
I wanted a new me, whatever it takes.
But life, as she often does, had a different plan in mind.
Now I have to say I'm a little less blind.
I have discovered my god,
no not the one you're thinking of.
I found "it" in the history here.
I connected to souls I now hold dear.
I found solace in the here-after in the stones of cathedrals.
I found hope in stone glass windows.
I found peace in battlefields.
I also found pain.
It poured down like rain.
It took my breath away,
trying my best to keep the night at bay.
I no longer fear the ghosts back there.
I fear being stuck in the metaphorical here.
I've now been unwanted,
seen a love be haunted.
I've finally stood up for myself.
Even if they think I have totally fallen off the shelf.
I have embraced my flaws,
finding the power in their claws.
I have gained respect for those waiting for me.
I have learned a new definition of free.
I learned it isn't in the lack of responsibility
but in my magnificent ability.
I find freedom in the doing,
in the dream I'm pursuing.
Here I am.
Tired of fighting.
Tired of running.
Flying home.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 6:45 AM UTC
thrice already bungee jumped / said with much pride,
but haven't yet learnt
to not carry knots of tension in my shoulders
to not clench my teeth together in terror
to not dig trails of red into my palms
with chewed down nails
and not trap stale air in my lungs until they nearly explode
let them turn the colour of rotting grapes as
every last molecule of oxygen leaks from my nose
when all I want is for my muscles to let loose
let go
for my feet to stop clawing (desperately and at the very last second)
to every ledge and corner
because these hands
and these lungs,
these thighs,
these eyes
and this heart
wants
to go
away -
far, far away, like that land from the fairytale
my mother read to me at night
to send me away
*(just like Hansel and Gretel's mother did
when her bones got leaner
like my mother's is getting, now)*
into a land she could only send me to -
never follow.
my letting go was the paradox
of sunshine on a snowy mountain,
a mother's lies to her children -
"I'm okay",
"It doesn't matter", -
my letting go
let go
only to slink back between the sheets
and hold you close.
my letting go
wears love in its eyes
stitches in hope from the sky
and prays for what was let gone
to come back;
else, you were never mine to begin with
but i, i am now yours,
(and only yours)
until the very end.
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 12:55 AM UTC
I. To Those Who Died
If I had a glass to raise
I'd pour champagne on
Mass graves,
Shelves of skeletons,
Skulls in single layers filling
Church basements,
And soil in the coutryside
Where the burial sites
Have not yet been
Unearthed.
I'd give bubbly to the bones
Of those who died
Before their first taste.
To those who died,
Because they owned ten cows or more
And had milk with their meals
While neighbors drank water.
To those who died,
Because they didn't have enough
Banana wine
For bribes
To save their lives.
To those who died,
Because they didn't have enough
Time to hide.
Because they hadn't lied
About their father's tribe.
To those who died,
Because they wouldn't confide
Where their killers could find
Cockroaches on that hillside,
Neighbors who'd run before dawn,
Their cattle, grazing in hiding, and
Where their children had gone.
To those who died, for being
The taller man
The longer nose
The leaner build
The lighter skin,
The more beautiful women.
I'd toast to those who died.
II. To Those Who Survived
If I had a glass to raise
Of champagne,
I'd toast to those
Sitting around this table
Sixteen years later.
"Here's to being alive!"
A toast to those who survived.
Jun 19, 2010
Jun 19, 2010 at 9:09 PM UTC
I put on your old watch. "Like father like son." ( —Not quite.) It is too big. I took a few links out but I'm leaner. All of the windows are open and the quiet fragments of unasked questions linger. I think I lost them in the newly occupied rooms of houses strangers now call home. Like an attic with limited storage space, I arrogantly discarded the opportunity to inherit your more worldly possessions —as though I believed your thoughts and memories weren't even worth it; like they would have been clutter. Unusable. But we are still too much alike. Every year I find more of you in my mirror. In my house. Downtown. At the dock.
Will I love my future children the way you loved me?
Mom still wakes up at 5:30, did you know? She makes me tea, and gives me a look she used to give you. I can see that she is afraid that I am becoming increasingly unreachable; that she is watching history repeat itself. She read it in your cards, and I guess she read it in mine too.
"You are so much like him," she'll fuss. She'll ask me to cut my hair for the hundredth time. "He liked that too," when I breathe in fresh air. Her garden was your favorite place in the world. "You know, your father..."
—She's getting married soon, but I can see that she still misses you. Your name is still on her lips, but she keeps them pursed to take a slow sip of her too-hot drink. She doesn't want to burn herself on the memory of you.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:17 AM UTC
Was there anyone leaner
Than Anthony ******
Whose cyber texting
Grew meaner and meaner
Whose face was angular
Like the blades of a knife
Whose sole defender
Was his forlorn wife
Better he peddle
His platform and schnoz
On the sweet gentle folk
Of the land we call Oz
With no caricaturists
Or bold paparazzi
To ruin his days
Or his dwindling moxie
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 11:20 AM UTC
Above zero
In the Siberian Express,
The Arctic Vortex
Is slipping up.
I see cement,
A welcome event.
Winter birds
Are chirping
In the early light
Of morn,
And crows
With knowing caws,
Converse from dusk
Til dawn.
The squirrels are leaner now,
Looking for old nuts,
Like me,
When I begin to think
These imitations of Spring
Might blunt winter's sting.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 10:38 AM UTC
My love was a fire that burnt the edges of my book, spreading to the binding, then from the inside, the flames licked outwardly toward my breath, filling my lungs until black was all that was left.
Ashes brushed aside. I stood with crusted eyes that questioned the surmise, to my late arrival.
Reprisal programmed in the map of my survival, vital to the plans for standing, and rejecting everything I've known, and i have grown in the pain, that has formed my strange demeanor.
My felonious ways, plead behind misdemeanors, for the leaner sentences of my commitments to commence upon the trenches of sheltered fakes, measured, divided, and placed in places to judge the taste of my waste.
Be my guest.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
They stand, the two of them, enveloped. Their bodies the segments of an orange before
ripped apart by delicate, hungry fingertips.
It is rush hour in Brixton and as she leans against this
unsteady machine, he holds her as if her limbs might fracture and fall
and land at their feet,
as if they might become neighbours to the newspapers and trodden gum that have
made their home there, ***** discarded, at ease.
Silhouette quietly nestled into his frame, sharing shadows
she, is elsewhere.
Gaze transfixed by a small being in front. A tiny entity that holds all of her undying
attention. Her lips bitten down to their core,
skin replaced by yearning and fear and a tenderness that you could touch.
The child’s tangerine lips waver hesitantly and then burst open, releasing a giggle
that sounds like fallen dust in sunlight, if it had a sound.
The space between them becomes a mirror, so much that the infant’s mother
looks like she has just learnt the definition of the word ‘envy’.
The tube falls into the station, and the passengers are squeezed out:
a frenzy of rushed beings in their most natural, narcissistic state.
From across the platform in rush hour, the train leaner is a mother.
And in her arms, oblivious, her lover.
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 10:41 AM UTC
I collect secrets
gathering them up like
a squirrel holds chestnuts in its cheeks
I hold them, in anticipation of
leaner times
that way, I will be
fine
fine
when winter arrives -
when I am left
alone
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 6:32 PM UTC
Rhythm and cadence
Foretell the surveillance
Of a mighty time
That thinks toward rhyme
With the trees of giving
Are eternal living
Diving or surfing networks
Riding the form
Of humanity's dorm
The grasses are greener
Where you are
The lives are leaner
Near this star
The will to give is profound
Aligned with every sound
Love fulfilled
Is the beauty to be willed
The stork has arrived
For ambition
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 10:48 PM UTC
in autumn all light is
(more **** fragile drunken sleeping)
the earth
and leaner
and leaner
rises uneasily in the morning stiff white
less
and
and
less
green(sproutsnone
frost slightly
instead
grows
just
)climbing the death of night rib
by
rib
by
rib of sallow frigid air
and in one enormous swallow:
WHITE
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC
It is very cold Here, and very quiet
Unless I make sounds and
The tiniest of
movements and then it
Is less so.
Sometimes people come along to the
Edges and they pass by in whirls of
Color or sounds I’ve never made making
Movements I could only dream of if I
Dreamt.
Sometimes the colors leak inside of Here
And hurt my eyes so I
Close them but the colors
Leak into my mind so I
Close that too.
Only recently though has someone
Noticed me Here and stopped to lean
Against the walls and whisper into the
Cracks the color has worn open to say
Try. Try to get out.
For the voice my mind opened and I tried very
Hard but all that happened was the walls wearing
Down in the places where my hands had
Pushed the hardest but alas
Nothing.
The voice came back though and the Leaner
Said Try. Try again.
And I couldn’t remember the words
“I can’t” so
I did.
And when I tried a spot of cardboard beneath
My thumb fell through
And in poured the colors and they
Burned me until I was
Clean.
And I pushed and pushed until my
Forefinger fell through and then
I grabbed and tore and ripped
and swore
and tumbled into There from Here.
And the Leaner had been waiting
And said, Welcome.
And I was afraid. I
Crawled back into Here and sat in the
Cold and quiet.
But I knew what I saw out
There.
And I will go back.
And the Leaner will be waiting for me
Whispering Try.
Mar 26, 2012
Mar 26, 2012 at 5:23 PM UTC
a caper has the flower trifocal
and ties from the skies now leaner than haze
that romance mash on sand
only jasper there's midst of surfboard
the recumbent fashion of hers
and solely in this decampment
will bring safari to encampment
though she suffered triumph litany
with mishmash and hullabaloo
yet she'll pound the pipe
in her organic fangs
mays butter's a lot of bot
to ground those tears of Walloon
there a plunder from seaside saloon
Nov 8, 2019
Nov 8, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC