"pinche" poems - Hello Poetry

quiero escribirte mil gordas, gordas formadas en líneas, gordas tiradas en el pasto, gordas con sus lonjas libres y sin fajas ni pantalones dos tallas menos que asfixien los tejidos de mi piel: quiero cantarte una gorda canción. gordas pinches gordas, gordo el culo gordo el corazón, gordas las piernas y los muslos, las caderas.... tentación. gordas !gordas son las anchas glorietas de la avenida gorda de la ciudad gorda donde todos los gordos y las gordas bailan un son que dice: tu eres golosa golosa y glotona, tu eres golosa golosa y glotona, pinche gorda poderosa tu eres fuerte tu eres diosa tus curvas son deliciosas templo lavado con miel para mi tu eres sagrada dulce, fuerte y cotizada gorda tu eres toda gorda, vos sos toda gorda, amante gorda, gorda estudiante, gorda madre, gorda hija, gorda espíritu santa. ¡bienvenidos a gordaztlan! donde mandamos las gordas y nuestro proceso de colonización conlleva amar nuestras lonjas, nuestra panza, nuestras chichotas. ¡donde nada es imperfecto! ni el lunar bajo del labio, ni los pelos de la panocha. ¡pasen pasen! por las anchas puertas de nuestro gordo destino, dicen que la vida es flaca pero gordo es el camino, en una mano el elote en la otra mano el pepino, con tortillas, chile gordo, gordolagas con tocino. ¡gorda! ¡gorda! sube tallas ¡y ven a bailar conmigo!

0

Jan 20, 2014

Jan 20, 2014 at 6:12 AM UTC

xuanito-de-la-puente

Gorda Canción

quiero escribirte mil gordas, gordas formadas en líneas, gordas tiradas en el pasto, gordas con sus lonjas libres y sin fajas ni pantalones dos tallas menos que asfixien los tejidos de mi piel: quiero cantarte una gorda canción. gordas pinches gordas, gordo el culo gordo el corazón, gordas las piernas y los muslos, las caderas.... tentación. gordas !gordas son las anchas glorietas de la avenida gorda de la ciudad gorda donde todos los gordos y las gordas bailan un son que dice: tu eres golosa golosa y glotona, tu eres golosa golosa y glotona, pinche gorda poderosa tu eres fuerte tu eres diosa tus curvas son deliciosas templo lavado con miel para mi tu eres sagrada dulce, fuerte y cotizada gorda tu eres toda gorda, vos sos toda gorda, amante gorda, gorda estudiante, gorda madre, gorda hija, gorda espíritu santa. ¡bienvenidos a gordaztlan! donde mandamos las gordas y nuestro proceso de colonización conlleva amar nuestras lonjas, nuestra panza, nuestras chichotas. ¡donde nada es imperfecto! ni el lunar bajo del labio, ni los pelos de la panocha. ¡pasen pasen! por las anchas puertas de nuestro gordo destino, dicen que la vida es flaca pero gordo es el camino, en una mano el elote en la otra mano el pepino, con tortillas, chile gordo, gordolagas con tocino. ¡gorda! ¡gorda! sube tallas ¡y ven a bailar conmigo!

41

aqui estas, de nuevo, mi amor te he esperado con tanto esplendor yo sabia que un dia ibas a regresar ya estas seguro que me puedes amar? mi amor, me das tanto miedo sin ti, me caigo y me quedo ciego si tuviera tu corazon, completaria mi mundo me dicen que asi es tener un amor profundo por favor dejame ganar tus sentimientos ya me llenas con todos esos pensamientos te amo, te amo, te voy a mendigar regresate conmigo, me tienes que salvar ya me desperte de este pinche sueno yo quisiera que fueras algo bueno pero ya me di cuenta de que no puedes ser tu no me amas y siempre me vas a correr pero, mi amor, te mendigo por favor quedate conmigo quedate---

0

Dec 12, 2011

Dec 12, 2011 at 11:35 PM UTC

richelle-leigh

quedate, mi amor

aqui estas, de nuevo, mi amor te he esperado con tanto esplendor yo sabia que un dia ibas a regresar ya estas seguro que me puedes amar? mi amor, me das tanto miedo sin ti, me caigo y me quedo ciego si tuviera tu corazon, completaria mi mundo me dicen que asi es tener un amor profundo por favor dejame ganar tus sentimientos ya me llenas con todos esos pensamientos te amo, te amo, te voy a mendigar regresate conmigo, me tienes que salvar ya me desperte de este pinche sueno yo quisiera que fueras algo bueno pero ya me di cuenta de que no puedes ser tu no me amas y siempre me vas a correr pero, mi amor, te mendigo por favor quedate conmigo quedate---

19

She hated her mother's voice, her strong accent thick like champurrado. Her defiance, her identity. She didn't fit in, and her mother's voice was a reminder why. A constant reminder. She hated the moment she crossed that border, maybe “I would have been the popular girl at school with a mother in the United States”. But here she was just an illegal. So many postcards, pretty pictures of tall buildings: “Las Vegas, city of lights”. She dreamed of one day being a tourist, like them gueras on TV, with their flashy credit cards, ordering coca light and rare steak. But here, she was just an illegal. Her resentment grew like a cactus: green, slimy, tall and filled with thorns. Each microagression a thorn, each mispronounced word a bullet. She remembers that one day when her English teacher made her read. She caught her as she was about to leave the classroom, “Miss Cuellar, it's your turn!” “Dang this pinche vieja is slick!” she thought... For cacti can't speak, much less read. But they remember. They remember each day they went without water, so their roots grew deep and profound in hostile ground, and they kept themselves strong, they hid themselves, they stood tall and vulnerable in the middle of nowhere. “I am a cactus” she wrote as the first sentence of her English paper about identity, she then deleted those words, what the **** was her teacher going to think? Now this crazy *** illegal thinks she's a plant so she wrote her name instead. But deep inside she knew she was a cactus in the middle of hostile lands, far away from that precious lake of healing waters where the wind sings and hills are green; far away from that country of dreams, colors and stories. Stories where her existence made sense, stories where she belonged. But here, she was just an illegal. So many things would trigger her, the sunset, the heat, people starting conversations, “don't talk to me, cacti don't talk” they grow thorns, they grow green, they like to be left alone. But she knew that that was not her natural state, she wanted to be free. Her spirit wanted to run out of that cactus. Why couldn't she be a bird? Un tzentzontle or a humming bird, even if they didn't live as long, they at least get to fly. But instead there she remained, rooted, guarded and defenseless, no matter how profound her roots were, she was still an illegal: wrong countried, wrong bodied, multispirited. One day her skin began to cry, a deep beautiful wound from which a flower sprouted. She had found poetry and realized that while cacti didn't speak they still flourished. To be continued..

0

Oct 28, 2015

Oct 28, 2015 at 7:35 PM UTC

xuanito-de-la-puente

Cacti

She hated her mother's voice, her strong accent thick like champurrado. Her defiance, her identity. She didn't fit in, and her mother's voice was a reminder why. A constant reminder. She hated the moment she crossed that border, maybe “I would have been the popular girl at school with a mother in the United States”. But here she was just an illegal. So many postcards, pretty pictures of tall buildings: “Las Vegas, city of lights”. She dreamed of one day being a tourist, like them gueras on TV, with their flashy credit cards, ordering coca light and rare steak. But here, she was just an illegal. Her resentment grew like a cactus: green, slimy, tall and filled with thorns. Each microagression a thorn, each mispronounced word a bullet. She remembers that one day when her English teacher made her read. She caught her as she was about to leave the classroom, “Miss Cuellar, it's your turn!” “Dang this pinche vieja is slick!” she thought... For cacti can't speak, much less read. But they remember. They remember each day they went without water, so their roots grew deep and profound in hostile ground, and they kept themselves strong, they hid themselves, they stood tall and vulnerable in the middle of nowhere. “I am a cactus” she wrote as the first sentence of her English paper about identity, she then deleted those words, what the **** was her teacher going to think? Now this crazy *** illegal thinks she's a plant so she wrote her name instead. But deep inside she knew she was a cactus in the middle of hostile lands, far away from that precious lake of healing waters where the wind sings and hills are green; far away from that country of dreams, colors and stories. Stories where her existence made sense, stories where she belonged. But here, she was just an illegal. So many things would trigger her, the sunset, the heat, people starting conversations, “don't talk to me, cacti don't talk” they grow thorns, they grow green, they like to be left alone. But she knew that that was not her natural state, she wanted to be free. Her spirit wanted to run out of that cactus. Why couldn't she be a bird? Un tzentzontle or a humming bird, even if they didn't live as long, they at least get to fly. But instead there she remained, rooted, guarded and defenseless, no matter how profound her roots were, she was still an illegal: wrong countried, wrong bodied, multispirited. One day her skin began to cry, a deep beautiful wound from which a flower sprouted. She had found poetry and realized that while cacti didn't speak they still flourished. To be continued..

10

Me desespera ser tan yo no se si es porque tengo el periodo pero ya no me soporto estoy harta de como soy y no lo puedo cambiar por mas que intente y siempre me trae problemas y mi inseguridad y mi inmadurez y mi falta de capacidad y mi forma de dejar que cualquier cosa me haga mierda soy una pendeja estoy hasta la madre de todo y no lo puedo cambiar quisiera poder desaparecer a un lugar tranquilo un bosque y tomar muchas fotos y quedarme dormida pero a la vez quisiera ser mas madura no ser como yo a veces quisiera ser otra persona mas segura mas madura con experiencia como cuando llegamos a playa era super segura mas madura valoraba todo quisiera poder levantarme el animo yo sola, no necesitar de nadie quisiera dejar de tener problemas hormonales quisiera dejar de estar tan pinche loca ser menos desesperada pero para eso tendría que ser otra persona porque yo ya intenté cambiar y no se puede entonces me doy cuenta de que preferiria morirme pero no puedo y mi hermana? y tu? y todos mis seres queridos? y la gente que me quiere ? y mi talento ? entonces siento que nada tiene solución y quiero explotar y quiero llorar y ser otra persona y ser yo y vivir y morir.

0

May 19, 2016

May 19, 2016 at 9:17 PM UTC

Girl-with-the-black-smile

Quisiera

Me desespera ser tan yo no se si es porque tengo el periodo pero ya no me soporto estoy harta de como soy y no lo puedo cambiar por mas que intente y siempre me trae problemas y mi inseguridad y mi inmadurez y mi falta de capacidad y mi forma de dejar que cualquier cosa me haga mierda soy una pendeja estoy hasta la madre de todo y no lo puedo cambiar quisiera poder desaparecer a un lugar tranquilo un bosque y tomar muchas fotos y quedarme dormida pero a la vez quisiera ser mas madura no ser como yo a veces quisiera ser otra persona mas segura mas madura con experiencia como cuando llegamos a playa era super segura mas madura valoraba todo quisiera poder levantarme el animo yo sola, no necesitar de nadie quisiera dejar de tener problemas hormonales quisiera dejar de estar tan pinche loca ser menos desesperada pero para eso tendría que ser otra persona porque yo ya intenté cambiar y no se puede entonces me doy cuenta de que preferiria morirme pero no puedo y mi hermana? y tu? y todos mis seres queridos? y la gente que me quiere ? y mi talento ? entonces siento que nada tiene solución y quiero explotar y quiero llorar y ser otra persona y ser yo y vivir y morir.

47

I scream I ****** cry You hear me!! Yeah!! I'm Pissed man At you!! Why weren't you here man I needed you I was on the ground too Man lost it Couldn't do it I don't wanna do it **** this **** **** this life It ain't right Every day man every shity day You know how it goes Down the bowl You do it right Then they let you go People like us We can't do **** jobs Naaa man don't think so They can kiss my ******** I want to die But I won't I'm Too strong I bounce the **** up And it's ******* me off Where are youuuuuuu!! **** you then Pinche Anthony man I should have let you get Empire tatted on your neck Bad Idea hu Yeah now I'm watching Your laugh in slow motion Hope you get Ran da car dover **** Hahaha **** I want some French cries with this **** **** you man I'm ****** I want to slobber on your shoulder ****** Just like you

0

Jun 9, 2014

Jun 9, 2014 at 2:09 AM UTC

spt

**** car you doña

I scream I ****** cry You hear me!! Yeah!! I'm Pissed man At you!! Why weren't you here man I needed you I was on the ground too Man lost it Couldn't do it I don't wanna do it **** this **** **** this life It ain't right Every day man every shity day You know how it goes Down the bowl You do it right Then they let you go People like us We can't do **** jobs Naaa man don't think so They can kiss my ******** I want to die But I won't I'm Too strong I bounce the **** up And it's ******* me off Where are youuuuuuu!! **** you then Pinche Anthony man I should have let you get Empire tatted on your neck Bad Idea hu Yeah now I'm watching Your laugh in slow motion Hope you get Ran da car dover **** Hahaha **** I want some French cries with this **** **** you man I'm ****** I want to slobber on your shoulder ****** Just like you

46

Hay dos clases de poetas modernos: aquellos, sutiles y profundos, que adivinan la esencia de las cosas y escriben: "Lucero, luzcero, luz Eros, la garganta de la luz pare colores cóleros", etcétera,y aquellos que se tropiezan con una piedra y dicen "pinche piedra". Los primeros son los más afortunados. Siempre encuentran un crítico inteligente que escribe un tratado "Sobre las relaciones ocultas entre el objeto y la palabra y las posibilidades existenciales de la metáfora no formulada". -De ellos es el Olimpo que en estos días se llama simplemente el Club de la Fama.

0

890

Jaime Sabines

Hay dos clases de poetas modernos

Hay dos clases de poetas modernos: aquellos, sutiles y profundos, que adivinan la esencia de las cosas y escriben: "Lucero, luzcero, luz Eros, la garganta de la luz pare colores cóleros", etcétera,y aquellos que se tropiezan con una piedra y dicen "pinche piedra". Los primeros son los más afortunados. Siempre encuentran un crítico inteligente que escribe un tratado "Sobre las relaciones ocultas entre el objeto y la palabra y las posibilidades existenciales de la metáfora no formulada". -De ellos es el Olimpo que en estos días se llama simplemente el Club de la Fama.

1

"I'm not your pinche half-eaten left-over burrito that you don't really want anymore but feel guilty about throwing away." Either way, dude Heartburn's coming.

0

Aug 23, 2015

Aug 23, 2015 at 2:11 AM UTC

rob-cochran

Overheard Phone Conversation on a Bus

"I'm not your pinche half-eaten left-over burrito that you don't really want anymore but feel guilty about throwing away." Either way, dude Heartburn's coming.

6