"paunch" poems
the tiles that encompass me
are falling like dominos
this is blackness at its zenith and
I have a coneful
lucky me
it’s like the summer of ‘96
all over again
and my friend’s dad jumped
in front of a coal train
we ate ice cream that day
in the dank Minnesotan heat
everyone was dripping
the mosquitoes were flocking in
green cloud
*ignite
flame
ignite*
and the crunch of bones
like this water falling on my shoulders
*wash
wash
again*
the sticky syrup from my chin and
poor Dane’s pants smell and there is
**** pooling at his ankles
enjoy this chocolate-dipped cone
or possibly this one with
patriotic sprinkles
no
I think I’ll pass
I’m watching my ten-year-old figure
you see this paunch?
it is my heart
it is so fat and ugly
take it from me, god
enjoy it on top of your
sundae
I always looked better red-chested
anyway
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
*Made me climb on her hands
Holding me not to fall
Made a swing on her hands
Swinging me not to cry
Made a basket of ripe mangoes
Filling my paunch not to crave
Made the shade of branches
Protecting me not to lather
Made a rapport of harmony
Loving me motherly not to yearn
Never let me down
My sweet Mango tree!*
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 12:46 AM UTC
For free, but hardly costless,
for you big lollipop suckers,
c a u s e,
every time I breathe in some atmosphere,
outcome these up chucked integers and alphabets to poll-
-ute the remaining "good air," which isn't i know very fait fair,
but would you rather this thin poesy lighter-than-whipped cream and
jello shaking handshaking easy eating than all that other stuff I obsess
about in no particular order, like life and death, counting my re-main-
lining breaths, love 'n like, awesome vs. trite, hot love and cold po-
-tatoe mustardy salad, punch and paunch, my endless declination into febrile old age and the wasting away processes most unfortunate,
that fuels a trillion dollar healthcare IN-dustry (midwest pro-nun-she-ate-sean), vitamins and supplements, manufactured in contaminated
factories in the farout east, that are not usda grade A, unless mixed with good **** and to hell with this graffiti wordley ***** even i'm
fed up from writing all this serious stuff, and Brother Leonard,
who is always very ****** says
fkinA, halle-lou-y'all
the end is near***
Sep 6, 2025
Sep 6, 2025 at 10:17 PM UTC
Matrilineality is the tracing of descent
through the female line corresponding
to a societal system in which each person
is identified with their matriline;
– their _mother's_ image –
and which can involve the inheritance
of property and/or titles. A matriline is
a line of descent from
a common female ancestor
to a descendant of either ***
in which the individuals in all intervening
generations are mothers –
in other words, a "mother line".
In matrilineal descent,
individuals belong to the same
group as their mother.
The matriline of historical nobility
was also called the _enatic_ or _Uterine_ ancestry;
From Middle English wombe, wambe,
from Old English womb, wamb
(“belly, stomach; bowels; heart; womb; hollow”),
from Proto-Germanic *wambō
(“belly, stomach, abdomen”),
from Proto-Indo-European *wamp- (“membrane (of bowels),
intestines, womb”). Cognate with Scots wam, wame (“womb”),
Dutch wam (“dewlap of beef; belly of a fish”),
German Wamme, Wampe (“paunch, belly”),
Danish vom (“belly, paunch, rumen”),
Swedish våmb (“belly, stomach, rumen”),
Norwegian vomb (“belly”), Icelandic vömb
(“belly, abdomen, stomach”), Old Welsh gumbelauc (“womb”),
Breton gwamm (“woman, wife”),
Sanskrit वपा (vapā́, “the skin or membrane
lining the intestines or parts of the viscera,
the caul or omentum”).
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 10:37 PM UTC
When my uncle came home from the war
he brought seven bags of naan
two pounds of butter and a piece of
shrapnel buried in his stomach
Cook he commanded
Butter the naans, heat
their skin on the stove
until they’re scorched
until they scream for release.
Cut them into a million
pieces and scatter them
Along Victory Avenue.
Once Noakhali’s valiant champion
Who scarfed 100 fuchkas
With their blood sauce streaming
is now unable to eat
His stomach is a paunch
Growling with rotting screams
pulled fingernails and broken
bones, fragmented stories
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:39 PM UTC
Karma was a dancer
at the Déjà Vu,
trading fantasies a few days a week
for ***** crumpled bills and
then living the dream on her days off.
That was before I knew her.
Before she faded just a little.
Which is not to say
that she was no longer beautiful
with her mermaid hair,
the color somewhere between
phosphorescent amber and
burning chestnut brown,
down to her *** and falling all around
her painfully sensuous curves.
The faint pucker lines 'round her mouth,
that liver spot,
a slight, barely discernable paunch,
I could see such things, too but
they only endeared me to
the façade of some silly notion
a kin to forever.
We would stay up late,
even on the weeknights,
wine silly and
**** chatty.
She would dance
and I would tell her
****** poems in exchange.
It seemed like a good trade
to me but the truth is,
she was being shorted in the deal.
We said,
I love you
but I’m not sure we knew
that we didn’t really have that
to offer one another.
Both of us had sold more
than we had ever bargained for
long before we met.
When money ran thin and
times grew hard
she split.
Hope still stops by on occasion.
(She was a dancer, too).
But it seems a bit easier to distinguish
differences between the faux
and the genuine these days.
She doesn’t stay long.
I like to blame it all on Karma
despite knowing that I was just never
quite frugal or savvy enough to afford more than a few perfume-drenched moments at the foot of the stage.
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 12:10 PM UTC
Around age 30, she had begun this dance
Of conversation, how to suggest the low-fat
Without insulting the husband’s paunch
And need for chocolate chip and fudge ripple.
Twenty years later, they stand in the aisle,
freezing, as they open door after door
in pursuit of the perfect opportunity
to be guiltless,
in at least one aspect of their lives.
“Is that mocha chip a two-for-seven deal?”
He asks, squinting at his wife.
It’s not low-fat, it’s only sugar-free,
She said, eyebrows creased
“Well, it looks like a good deal.”
He is reaching, ignoring the tap tap of her foot,
when she snatches the tub from his palms
and the freezer door closes the conversation.
They leave for home in silence,
with frozen peas.
My fiance and I watch,
each carrying tubs of french silk
and mango sorbet, and feeling the fullness
of potential among the frozen foods,
and I add waffles and bananas
to our feast.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 8:00 PM UTC
Suffering are many
To ample their
Hunger for a day
Lying are many
On platforms with
Bare paunch all day
Spending our money
On burgers and pizzas
On a single day
Why not a charity
A penny a day ?
May 15, 2016
May 15, 2016 at 2:27 AM UTC
Mother taught me flight.
Father, hover.
I learned haunt, whine,
bother,
From looking at men
stripped down to their tidies
in those Avon magazines, I found out
I liked them. Look at that paunch.
Also that crotch. And the studio light twinkle
on skin & eyes.
I looked at the ***** You have to know:
this was no sin. I covered my head
with lace antimacassar as I traced
this man’s junk with my fingertips;
I was covered.
Save for that,
I did right by rules,
most of the time.
Scraped knee, split lip,
didn’t cry at those, no,
as so ordered.
We never tell girls this, but did
you know us boys have a rite of passage
supposed to be kept secret? It goes:
Your father takes you to a hardware store.
You ask why, and he only says “this is day,
the mark of the man.” You nod.
He takes you to the aisle
with all the blades:
shears, scissors, awls, ice picks, whatever.
He lets you pick one. He pays for it.
Father takes you home, gives you the cutting tool
of your choice, and tells you to go to the bathroom,
face yourself in the mirror, and
“aim for the tear ducts.”
It’s kept secret because
it doesn’t work. Not always, anyway.
I’ve heard about other boys that missed,
both eyes damaged.
Not all, not all.
My gentle father didn’t:
he bought me Flu Game Air Jordans,
the one with maroon slithering around black.
Boys always got expensive basketball shoes.
I suppose he loved his boy, is all.
Father’s not that bad. Mother, neither.
Only clueless, maybe.
One time I came home too happy,
head-drunk thinking about this schoolboy crush,
and they never knew.
The first time I jacked off I felt the entire sky
strike my pelvis with a typhoon fizz,
and they never knew.
During prom a boy slashed my heart with a
scalpel (his cutting tool?),
and they never knew.
You can’t teach boys some things,
like how to whisper to another boy
when the light is out.
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 5:28 AM UTC
Down the burrow,
the bells do toll
when the fox has passed,
as the orange stain fades
and the ***** of tomorrow still stifles
the tendril of today.
When I was small
a half martyred critic sowed
the seed, laid waste as a garden grew
invasive purple
and I smiled.
Beneath skin, a tyrant reigns
the royal mouth of seasons, changing.
Eden was a bag of bones,
dust to claim the ruse of divinity.
Don't tell, do tell
when children grow, a ****
flourishes, insanity! Insanity!
Hear, they're
there, here,
flows a ready current and the sun sleeps,
lightening in the night--
When the tail of today is swallowed
a soil paunch, down the belly,
am I killing time
or is it killing me?
Aug 14, 2012
Aug 14, 2012 at 12:17 AM UTC
I had to do it, since I wanted to see him again
one last time, it was OK
Just a guy in a typical poofy too big man's shirt
Funny how men try to puff themselves up with their clothes and suit
and we try to look smaller,
undershirt borders underneath too big white sleeve his wife bought
A married weight, a paunch that began at chest level
and made him look like a mango and brown slacks
a tan, and that curly hair with the little twirl on to that seemed to asked to be
grabbed onto and pulled back
and his authority the sexiest part
I needed him to sign a form and he took a long time to sign it
read every tiny thing, as I squirmed inside, but sat up straight and
perky so happy to be here.
was he drawing out--for me?
Then he looked at me with those baby blues
up from the paper on the desk, with those deep rivets in his forehead
all these huge scrunched up muscles
why do they need muscles even on their forehead?
and I was pierced to the center
and I know I'd think he's a bore
and as I drove away I saw him walk out of the building
carrying a lunchbox his wife probably fixed for him
and no, I'm not proud that I feel like this
and no, it's never something to act on
but as I drove home, I thought of him
despite the mango body, the huge shirt
and my not in shape profile that would have to be
crammed into a corset I thought about a lot
and if I could forgive him his middle aged flaws
I should be able to forgive mine
because humans are much more complex than those
dumb two dimensional magazines let you believe and
we haven't been photographed for all the thousands of years we've been reproducing
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
So I got caught up in life like so many other stiffs.
So I work two jobs. So I'm
twenty-three. Halfway dead, quarter-way dead -
Percentages and figures surmised by a
fictional statistician in some far off laboratory
wearing a handsome tweed sweater
despite the heat, helping to contain his
paunch.
So doctors have told me beer will **** me.
So they advise that I not indulge in any illegal
substances. We do not debate the validity of law. The
role of fear in today's culture. Hysteria. So I'm on antidepressants.
So I'm a candidate for pharmaceuticals. So I drink when
I can, which is just about every day. So I had a problem in
the past, so I spent a month locked away. So I'm not taking
a class. So I'm just about white. So I share a room with Phil
and a house with five other young men. So I had *** with
a girl I pretty much just met. So my drugs are right next to my bed.
So my urine's ***** So I'm a brother and a son.
So I'm my own man.
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 3:40 PM UTC
Some planets flatten at their rumps.
Some have grown a paunch, and not quite round,
They wander from their orbital bounds.
Ellipses bulge because of lumps.
Aug 6, 2021
Aug 6, 2021 at 12:12 AM UTC
where the hell did you come from?
my callow frame in younger days
was cause for derision and nick names
i was “will o the wisp”
who disappeared when side-ways
magically reappearing when front on
i was lean and keen
a blonde-haired light surfing machine
now when side-ways there is a bump
a belly **** that wasn’t there before
was it habitually too much lunch
that steadily grew the paunch?
was it all those beers and cheers
over the years and years?
was it the invisible slide to a life sedentary
that expanded organs alimentary?
or is it a denial of my peter pan myth
that with age i just have to put up with?
anyway suddenly it seems to have come
but where the hell did it come from?
Nov 20, 2017
Nov 20, 2017 at 6:39 PM UTC
....and who are we that Eton,Harrow do not see,
we are the sinking of the sun,the wreck of the S.S Great Britain has come.
Where once we were the universe,rulers of lands and seas,we have been brought down to our knees to slowly, slowly sink.
Drink and drugs the slugs and snails what ails us,do we know?
Council blocks and towers knock us down to build new towns and the green belt gets much tighter,landfills full up to the brim the doors of opportunity are locked,we can't get in,too fat,too thin,old school ties and gold tie pins and who are we?the
disenfranchised and despised by those that do not see the rising tide of poverty.
Those we passed on our way up are those who put a penny in this beggars cup and wave goodbye,the sky has dropped, the horizon dulled,pulled this and that way,can't pay the bills,drink and drugs the only thrills and betting on the three fifteen to race along another pointless dream,
horsemeat in the freezer section,the four fifteen was my selection which fell at the final fence.
Prozac helps us to relax,fuck the council tax and income band just put two blue pills in my hand and make it seem like it's a dream and we're not sinking,what a scream,a film show,I should go and see the launch,exercise to lose this paunch.
Tomorrow I may rise to see my ship Great Britain back at sea or I could stay in bed and thread excuses on a needle,sew myself a sweater,keep the heat in,can't afford electric fires not like those out in the Shires where logs are burnt,money earnt is money burnt in my opinion.
Back to basics,Luddite hills and give me two more small blue pills,put them on the bills of lading,degrading I can do,but you have so much more and it's ship to shore on the radio,rise me hearties off we go,one more mad dash to make some more cash,undeclared that's only fair,
the revenue can go and ***** and spin upon that middle digit,fidgeting?it must be fleas,do fleas get brought down to their knees?
You see,
in this last scramble to the death I ramble on with my last breath,they haven't taxed my fresh air yet but I bet they will,drink and drugs for one more thrill,up anchor as I will at will to drift away into the sinking of just one more day.
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:38 AM UTC
When I first saw him, he smiled, was very welcoming
And I thought nothing really about him, Authority figure warning this boss
who wasn't my boss because now I'm a student but there was nothing about him
Just another AP, covered in man clothes, long shirts and collars and belts and
slacks and at a married weight with a paunch over his belt and a picture of a
child on his cell phone. same old.
At the meeting I was sitting next to him and I felt that feeling
the authority figure disease I get where I think he's hot
and I noticed he had blue eyes, and a good build underneath
the married weight and this was totally insane.
I'm just nervous. I don't really want to ride him like a pony
as I was thinking and crossed my legs and imagined
us naked, stealing away in some bland hotel and
just going at it to ecstasy and that blood rush feeling that starts
in your groin and seems to go out the Universe and you
share it with that, other being who for this moment is God and you Goddess
And the meeting was boring, so I shifted my legs again and
thought. I'm just nervous. This is what I do.
My habit of mind.
He doesn't really look like Robin Thicke
and I don't care and God I hope he doesn't notice
or can't read my mind and he turned and tried his best
to look up my skirt and I'm sure in his mind,
it's my fault he did that when his wife lives inside his cell phone
and has borne him new beings and here he is
And thank God the meeting was over and I never thought
about him again, not once
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 11:30 PM UTC
Time makes no concession for me,
nor does it care that I am fighting its relentless forward march.
Try as I might to ‘be in the moment’,
it seems to me that as soon as I am aware of that moment,
it has passed me by and I am wondering what I may have missed!
Each day I awake and am stunned that I am already getting up for yet another week of work, when it seems like the much-longed-for-Friday had just arrived!
I share my experiences with friends and co-workers
and suddenly realize that I am speaking of events which are twenty years past –
though they feel as if they are of newer stuff.
I begin to see the march of time played out on the faces of the famous and the popular and,
either refuse to see it in my own face,
or I am looking at myself through rose-tinted glasses.
A graying beard and salt-n-pepper where dark brown was so prominent are the only signs I’m aging!
I don’t have wrinkles, and my chin is still that: SINGULAR,
And while I was never muscular, I can still see definition in my frame,
in spite of my growing paunch.
But I AM getting older.
My body – the unseen parts – my bones, joints, brain, vision, and yes, memory
are all beginning to make the change that tells me I am in the beginning of decline,
and can anticipate the autumn of my life.
I am getting older.
Time does not pity me – nor does it seem to even notice I am here.
I try to redeem the time, because I know that MY time is fleeting,
but I find that I am continually being passed by the sands flowing through this mortal hour glass!
But wait – aging isn’t dying!
Getting older doesn’t mean getting worse!
Would I rewind my days and relive the moments of my life? Never!
I am a much better man as I am!
I am a much wiser man at this time of life!
I am a much kinder man, and a more caring man than ever I was before!
Would I dare to trade who I have earned the right to be
for one more decade, one year, one month, or day? No!
I have paid the price for my gray hair and my mellowed heart and peaceful mind.
I would not cast these gifts upon the tide of time and ages
and force myself to pay the price already paid.
I will age.
Time will continue, and I will redeem my hours as I may
and not lament the moments which pass me by.
Instead, I will capture those moments with pen and paper,
and I’ll hold them captive on a page,
and thereby live forever!
© 2012 by Michael Hunter
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 9:43 PM UTC
You don’t choose to go into bookshops anymore,
you don’t read much,
you hear about calories and five-a-day but you don’t stick to it,
you say you’ll exercise but you never seem to do any,
you notice a blossoming paunch but choose to keep it,
you lose friends and rarely gain any,
you don’t make much of an effort and rarely care,
you don’t sleep as much as you should,
you don’t like the job you’re in,
you don’t know what job you should be doing,
you only work for the money,
you don’t have enough money,
you buy things you don’t need,
you don’t talk to your parents enough,
you don’t talk enough,
you spend too much time on your phone,
you care more about technology than your friends,
you don’t look where you’re walking,
you moan about the youth of today,
you aren’t as mature as you could be,
you still live at home in your thirties,
you see your friends getting married and having kids,
you watch too much ***********
you haven’t travelled as much as you’d like,
you are quick to body-shame,
you don’t understand what LGBTQ+ means,
you can’t tell the difference between Conservative and Labour,
you wear the same clothes day in day out,
you are not the best driver,
you have social media pages but aren’t sociable,
you sigh when girls you like get into relationships,
you know you never stood much of a chance,
you have too many fillings,
you don’t celebrate birthdays much,
you are getting lazier all the time,
you haven’t had a long conversation in ages,
you hate your neighbours,
you don’t know your neighbours,
you get angry playing video games,
you order takeaway food rather than cook,
you say this is my year when you know it won’t be,
you haven’t told anybody this,
you haven’t even told yourself,
you are not sure you need to.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 7:18 PM UTC
The charge nurse closes
the door behind Yiska.
Can I go home? Not yet.
When? When you are
well enough. I am well
enough. We think not.
Who are we? The nurses
and the doctors and I,
think you are not well
enough. But I feel well
enough. You are on the
inside looking out, we
are on the outside of
you looking in. So? We
see things from a much
different angle. But I feel
well. Feelings can betray.
But I feel well. You think
you are well. I am. We think
not. But what do you know?
We are professionals. But
I know what I feel inside.
The charge nurse taps his
pen on the desk, Yiska coldly
stares at him. You tried to
cut your wrists. Tried yes,
but I stopped. Not soon
enough. I am here aren’t I?
The fact you decided to
cut your wrists says you
are unwell. It was how I
felt then. Feelings again.
It was a dark time. Wait
until you are better when
the dark days have gone.
You mean ECT? It helps.
Not me. Some it does.
Not me though. We saw
Improvement, we think.
You think? We professionals.
I get headaches. Side effect.
I feel sick afterwards. More
side effect. Yiska screws
her hands in her lap. The
charge nurse stares at her.
You mix well with Baruch.
He’s kind. He’s a patient.
He is unwell like you. I like
him. He has his problems.
Don’t we all? He will not
help you. You don’t help
me. He will not. I like him.
So we are informed. You
spy? We watch. Spy. We
need to watch all of our
patients. I want to go.
When you are well. Now
I want to leave here.
The hospital? Yes. No.
The room then. Here.
Yes. Ok. Yiska gets up
from the chair. The
charge nurse sits there
watching her. She draws
her nightgown tightly
about her as she leaves
the room. We are still
watching you and Baruch.
Yiska says nothing. The
door closes. She sighs.
The charge nurse folds
his fingers over his large
paunch and stares at the
door and folds away his
captured image of her
naked as he has before.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
Once, I was, with a thin body,
And a sound which roared
Louder than the ocean
Only the banned loud speakers
Are needed as proof
Remember standing on the street,
As a thousand flowering tongue-trees
Remember standing guard in my hometown,
A torch stuck on my chest
Remember asking
How Itteera became Itteera
Today, after translation,
When I look in the mirror,
Word has got swollen,
It lies dormant behind the bars of the specs
Similes have developed a paunch
Metaphors have gone obese
Wonder whether my poems will recognize me
Cannot walk,
Cannot get up ,
Been sitting for such a long time
I wish to devour everything new
But start gagging as soon as I see it
God almighty,
If I miss my exercise,
My 400-page autobiography
Will end in diabetes.
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 7:05 AM UTC
Interesting that we older men now flag our own decline
Composted in this shameful ruse enacted over time.
We point to prime examples of our keynote men of age
De Niro, Keitel, Clooney, Hurt…all class acts, on the stage.
Take Clarkson, Rush, O’Toole and Bean…they brim like vintage wine,
Having come to terms with baldness and the sagging paunch decline.
Like them, we’ve learned the lesson of absurdity of life,
Where the trick to aged contentedness, is to pacify the wife.
An awareness of fragility in that pending death is near,
Is offset by the peace of mind of subdued *** and beer.
We say, to Hell with gradual fade of hairline, health and wealth
When a crystal glass of single malt can smooth it all by stealth.
So quell the racing, thudding heart, lean back in wisdom’s shine,
Secure in that with shaky hand…We can still quaff vintage wine.
And should the youth lose patience with a hesitancy there
We can usually still their arrogance with a knowing senior stare,
And should there be a question of a competency still?
Remind them their tomorrow too.. is running fast downhill.
Don’t sweat it with the walker, for it all arrives too soon
And sweetly on the wireless there was Perry Como’s croon,
Take comfort in the fact that soon they’ll put us out to grass
When oblivion comes creeping in Altzheimers foggy clasp.
To tabulate the good and bad within this lifetime’s span
Leaves the negatives predominant, should truth reveal her hand,
It becomes a bit obsessive when the mind’s allowed to dwell
For around the corner, probably, …. is a one way trip to Hell.
M.
Pukehana Paradise
Auckland NZ
May 7 2014
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:41 PM UTC
Punch was born the ideal child,
Blonde, blue-eyed, average size,
An average brain,
And a touch of the wild.
He had sibs, young and old,
He grew bold,
He was told
But never quite fit in.
Sports talk from the bench,
Smoke, drink and wayward ***
Had Punch desirious
Of what came next.
His family asked:
Why does he carry on so?
Success came easy
As his bronze tan,
Driving red hot rods,
With a blonde or two,
They were all the same.
Punch was liked
When he was tame.
How does he carry on so?
How can he carry on?
His golden hair has set now,
His blue eyes yet hard cold.
Now they call him
Paunch not Punch,
(but never to his face,
we give our Punch a break)
As gravity took its hold.
And Punch still carries on.
How he carries on.
Jun 29, 2015
Jun 29, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
I think I’m broken.
I used to be so ******* skinny
And I didn’t even know it
At my very core I hate what I am
Because all I can see is how much space I take up
I can’t exist this much
It is wrong
I have believed it is wrong for as long as I could develop belief
And that is all I have
I use it against myself
For fear, I toast the paunch
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 11:18 PM UTC
tonight I'm going to
sleep with the curtains open
and if in the morning
I don't wake
let these sheets become flags
hang them so they appear
as swans on top of
telegraph poles
hang them where the grass is blown across
the midriff of the girl I saw on the platform today
hang them above the fields
where potatoes grow into
the shapes of sympathetic ears
hang them where they may
unravel as bandages from dancing limbs
let my scent cling to them and let the ones
who loved me bury their heads in the wind
hang them on the hero's shoulders
let them be the cloak that transforms him
hang them out to sing in the pines full of woodsmoke
hang them where the sun warms the seagulls belly
where babies commit clotheslines to memory
hang them alongside the underwear you decided not to
wear today
let them hang like actors performing
daring rituals in tropical hotels
hang them on the cucumber held by the checkout girl
hang them on the chins of strutting statues
riding concrete horses
hang them over the endless heads of anxious eyes so
children may play with driftwood
their sea encrusted hair untamed
unwashed
hang them over the conspiracy of clocks
but don't let them hang around too long
don't let them hang down sad and greasy
shrugging shoulders at the parties end.
muttering 'nothing left, time to go'
pull them down mid-dance
sporting a bulging
salt-breeze paunch
hanging just long enough
for them to know
I have eaten well.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
Slab Of Flab Protrudes From Ab
twas an incremental subtle expansion of waist
most likely aside effects of one
or all prescription medication
to stave off severe melancholy,
social anxiety, panic attack, et cetera
whereby most everything thy tongue did taste
immediately delivered a randy paunch
to former washboard
smooth as a fresh application of gesso like paste
readying canvass
for partially naked self-portrait masterpiece
depicting naked body laced
with flat as a washboard physique
unlike present dis graced
whereat when sending a photograph
of shirtless self-try with futility
utilizing photoshop to get erased
displeasing equatorial zone of anatomy
saddled with unwanted
fatty tissue that defaced
proportionate rock hard stomach
with a slender man
about five foot and ten-inch build
evincing an aura of being chaste
gone forever analogous to temptation
gobbling house constructed
of cake and confectionery
that nearly did likewise to Hansel and Gretel
readying their not quite plump enough bodies
tubby slathered with baste
yet just in the nick of time
the two abandoned children aced
the sinister plot outwitting
cannibalistic cackling croaking old woman
inducing to break out into song singing
Sarasponda, sarasponda, sarasponda rat tat tat
Sarasponda, sarasponda, sarasponda rat tat tat
A doray-oh, A doray-boomday-oh
A doray-boomday ret set set
Ah say pah say oh.
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC