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obscure Jun 2014
large, and in charge as I'd like to put it.
chunky, pudgy, fat, plump
however you'd like to say it, however
it is none of your **** business.

I am not a number on a scale
or a mile that I haven't run
I am not the size of my waist
or the "excuses" that have lead me to "let myself go"

But I, am human.
Say what you will
but I love myself.
blonde hair, blue eyes
a sense of humor that can't me measured with something so feeble as  measuring tape.
A love of life that will not be put to rest just because I may need to take a rest every so often.

How do you measure happiness?
not on a scale
or with inches
pounds or calories that seem to sneak up on you in the middle of the night and make your pants a bit too snug

we judge people for judging people because judging people is wrong
we blame society for our corrupt nature,
but we are society.
super super personal but I needed to get it off of my chest.
Robert G Page Dec 2015
A Christmas Thought (short story)

This time of the year,  when once giving from the heart has since melted like the snow in Spring to the meaningless demand for expensive toys and gadgets;  and Santa has waned to no more than the all-giving sugar daddy to each and every child,  and a tireless crutch to the mindless parent during the year; “Santa’s watching so you’d better be good.”

And alas,  there I stood in this huge department store amid a vast forest of toys, colors, and noises, fallen prey to this modern day hypocrisy known as Christmas.  Being of a lower middle economical standard,  and having with such stealth blindness juggled expenses and bills to afford myself the opportunity to plunge even deeper into dept.  I pondered these playful wonders of modern day technology.  All about countless numbers of people were doing as I in efforts to reward their children for their year of good service.

This was when I saw her. As fast as this seasonal frenzy had overtaken me just days earlier,  it vanished for a time as I watched her. It must have been that she seemed so out of place in this hurry-scurry festive scene of Christmas shopping that she caught my eye.  She was very old and her tattered,  worn out clothing all too obviously reflected the fact that she couldn’t afford much.  While others struggled about her almost comically laden with brightly colored  packages, this old woman had nothing more than an old purse dangling from her arm.  Slowly she moved, seemingly pained with the infirmities which accompany old age.  She appeared overweight for her stature which I’m sure added to her discomfort.  When she stopped in front of the doll section  her old, pudgy face glowed with joy.  Undoubtedly a doll for a little granddaughter,  I was  sure no more as she couldn’t possibly afford more.  I watched as she studied each doll
and its price tag,  going from one to the next.  Finally she stopped to give particular attention to one little doll adorned with colorful ribbons and big bright blue eyes.  Then putting the doll back,  she opened her purse and I watched as she counted the small amount of money that she had.  

By this time I had become so unexplainably absorbed with watching the old woman,  who with a smile closed her purse, retrieved the doll and walked slowly and painfully to the checkout counter to wait in line.  Around her the noise of parents and children alike waiting their turn to check out didn’t seem to bother her as she patiently waited, holding the precious little doll for an equally precious granddaughter.  Finally when her turn came, an all to cruel yet human trait appeared in not only the people waiting behind her but the checkout clerk as well. Their impatience to maintain a steady flow of human traffic through the turnstiles came to the forefront almost obliterating this seasonal spirit.  This didn’t seem to deter the old woman from slowly and surely counting out the correct change,  leaving her very little to return to her purse.

With this done and the doll tucked away in a shopping sack,  she proceeded through the large glass doors and out into the cold December night.  A passing thought, “one special gift for one special person,” went through my mind as I continued my own, now more selective tour of annual duty.  Looking over my shoulder for one last glimpse of the old woman, I suddenly felt as if struck by a jolt of electricity as I saw her on her back in the slushy snow, struggling like an over-turned turtle.

Bolting out the door hoping to be the first to reach her,  I almost found myself lying next to her on the slick sidewalk.  Nothing was said as I struggled to lift her up.  Once this was accomplished I asked her if she was alright.  Instead of answering  she started looking around for her package.  I spotted the torn, soaked paper sack some ten feet away in a slushy puddle and went to retrieve it.  The doll had come half way out of the sack and her little blonde curls were now filled with water and slush; and as I handed it back I searched the old woman’s face for even a trace of sadness, there was none. Instead she looked at me smiled and said, “thank you young man, it’ll dry out, it’ll be alright, Merry Christmas.”  Then holding the doll in both hands, she turned and went on her way, much slower and much more cautiously.  I just stood there and watched her until she finally disappeared in the crowd and darkness and thought to myself, “maybe Santa Claus isn’t a man after all.”
Shadow Dragon Sep 2018
Three orange lights
waiting in a cue.
Warm, pudgy and sweating.
Squeezing the last drop
of pure sweetener
down your throat.

Delicious syrup
growing and spreading
on the finger tips.
Feeding the eager.
Melting bright nectar
dropping down the thighs.

Saliva sprinkels
on the piano lips.
Playing chants
of lust and thirst.
Lavish liberation
buzzing for more bees.
L B Nov 2017
What She Look Like?
…Like one
tenderly hushing
water in her lap
Elemental peace
No place to go
No more to be
…Like the ocean
in the background
of a photo on a warm spring day
and the random possible


at all guilty ******* in her path
Toss in the next sentient soul
who should happen to pass
within range
who should have seen
who should have known
what a storm could do….

Moody in the aftermath
and sorrier than rain
With the tide in retreat
grumbling excuses
Hiding out waist-deep in dusk’s Merlot
Waiting for night to sleep it off

to heal the rifts
cleanse the shame

yellow, bright— and

“What the hell happened, here?!”


Her hair
a winter’s tragedy of trees
upside down—
No wait— the wind has put her right
to ragged random branches
swaying, wet with intermittent hues
of dark and silver
caught in collar, flying inelegant and free
at the shoulders of the levee
tossed and softening shyly
sagging jaw and nose a stump of tree
All perspective changes…

if you watch a while—

She’ll raise her eyes
into the sunset
to catch an eagle

…and then you might…


She looks like—
a pudgy robin
querying grass
mud soaked
that hides the fire of her breast
tugging at a worm
more than half her length
“I will feed them, **** you!
Give it up, you son of a snake!”

...Don’t miss her hour of music though
for anything
Encroaching darkness
from the rooftops
she listens to the hearts she breaks

Remember this in winter
she can give but she will take
it out on February
when you’re longing
for her
Only male robins do the singing; females do the choosing.  

There are very few recent  photos of me.  Thus this poem.
Edna Sweetlove Jan 2015
O how I recall with joy a visit to Jackson, proud capital of Mississippi,
The land of the fearless fatties, the glorious land of the uber-obese,
A paradise enjoying amazingly high blood pressure and diabetes rates,
Thanks to the greed and gluttony of its 'proud-to-be-portly' inhabitants.

How delightful to stroll along its leafy boulevards, admiring the advertising
For junk food shops: "Super-Size Your Deep Crust Giant Pizza for only $1!"
"Real Men love our Emperor Size Cheeseburgers, King Size is for Kids!"
And "Come Try Our All Day Giant Breakfast with Triple French Fries!"

How enchanting to see furniture stores offering discounted extra big sofas,
Builders and carpenters with their cut-price floor-strengthening deals,
Tailors' shops with their displays of buffet pants and elasticated jeans,
Realtors promoting houses with double porches and wide internal doors.

And, O the trailer parks, those truly splendid residential areas,
With their giant size immoveable vehicles with spacious entry portals
To allow the immaculately dressed residents to carry in an armful
Of multi-packs of chocolate iced crème flavour filling Krispy Kremes.

But most wondrous of all, the myriad rival Pentacostal Chapels
With their guaranteed reinforced concrete padded sofa-pews
And their portrayals of plump Jesuses to make the fatties feel at home.
And all those "funeral parlors" with their gaping super-wide caskets.

How I loved the blinking stares of the sleep-deprived bible students
As they staggered out of an architectural wonder of a chapel,
Bleary-eyed after an all-night bible study session, and all eager
For a healthy breakfast of a dozen flash-fried sugar encrusted "donuts".

I was there in this glorious world centre of ever-escalating obesity
With my latest gorgeous lady love (at only 140 pounds and five foot two,
possibly the slimmest woman in the entire Jackson Metropolitan Area)
And we decided to try some good ol' Mississippi fine dining as a treat.

Holey Moley! What a feasts on offer: pan-fried catfish, deep-fried catfish,
Steaks the size of an encyclopaedia and all accompanied by unlimited fries!
Sweet potato and pecan pie with butter, sugar, eggs and extra cream,
And Mississippi Mud Pie with its chocolate crust and sticky chocolate filling!

(The chef de cuisine in our upscale diner told us that Southern cooks
had created this wondrous dessert because its sophicated ingredients
were available cheaply and the recipe required only minimal culinary skill,
and what's more it came with a treble serving of supermarket ice cream!)

We declined the bottomless cup of watery coffee with compulsory sugar
And enquired if we might have a bottle of his finest wine. Quel faux-pas!
The dear fatso was mortified and told us his was a Christian establishment
And strong drink was frowned upon. Did we think he was a degenerate?

That night we lay bloated like beached whales in our tasteful motel room
(its bed reinforced with ferro-concrete to deal with the horrid possibility
that any gargantuan visitors might wish to copulate vigorously);
Oh how we burped and farted, longing for a dose of bicarbonate of soda.

All good things come to an end so, after a nessy session on the toilet
(we filled it thrice), we bade farewell to the desk clerk and sloped off.
"Be sure y'all come back real soon," he declared, patting his fat gut,
"Cuz you both sure do look two real skinny Limeys, ya hear me?."

As we drove out of this elegant city that steamy Southern summer morn
In our rented 4X4 super-strong chassis Land Rover, how we smiled
At the scene outside Walmart where the special offer of the day
Was five pounds of free candies with every single assault rifle sold.

But alas! And alack! Tragedy was not so very far away that day:
Some corpulent teenagers toppled off the sidewalk under my auto's wheels
In their indecent haste to take advantage of the latest McDonald's bargain:
A quart of complimentary Dr Pepper's with a whole oven-fried McTurkey.

Oy! What a horrid mess my fender made of their pudgy, mottled flesh
And how wise we were to speed off before the cops arrived
At least, we avoided being beaten us to a pulp for being leftist libtards
Come to laugh at the dear redneck ways south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
Chocolate ice cream running
down my pudgy chin
licking it up quickly
like it's liquid sin

This sweet stuff really makes me
do a little dance
but my *** is spreading
in my yoga pants

I'm gonna have to stop it
and put it down for good
even though I hate to
I know I really should

I'll eat it in the morning
and then again at night
it's no ****** wonder
my pants are getting tight

I could pray to God in heaven
make a wish upon the moon
or stop being so lazy
and just put down the spoon
Months of stale, cigarette smoke
and spilt **** water pleasantly
offset the stench of cheap cologne
and ratty, abused furniture.
Fictitious stories occupy this tiny, dim
apartment, birthed on the lips of
rebellious juveniles whose tongues
pierce the ears of our elders.

In a forsaken corner, Jeremy lounges
awkwardly on a grubby-plaid sofa that
suitably complements his button-down shirt.  
I join him.

Behind his right ear rests a lonely cigarette, while
another sits snug between his lips, set ablaze
by the 1968 Slim Model Zippo he inherited from
his beloved grandfather.

His transparent sense of self-worth emanates
from his grubby, grease-stained hands, scuffed boots,
blotchy-checkered flannels, and faded blue jeans
that are completely obliterated with holes.

I look into his pale blue eyes, the depth of which
often goes unrecognized.  Jeremy is a soft-hearted,
pudgy youngster with the kind of chunky cheeks
that all grandparents love to torture.  

But his marred, acne-ridden face betrays the transition
that has been forced upon him.  Slowly, his trademark
grin appears across his face – subtle, mischievous, and
typically without reason.  But this time it appears justified.

Jeremy takes a moment’s break from his cigarette to drop two
hits of acid.  A new drug for him, he hopes to find relief from
his seething anxiety, evidenced now by the wide expansion of his
chest as he takes another, more lengthy and powerful pull from his cigarette.

The mundane chatter that fills the room continues, a seeming
necessity to offset any potential awkward silence. I feel as if
this noise is closing in around us.  But just as suddenly as I
feel overwhelmed by this sensation, the noise stops.

I look around, noticing everyone’s eyes staring in my
direction.  Jeremy is still next to me, now giggling
like a little school girl.
I begin to feel sick.

Jeremy swiftly leans forward, giving his
cigarette a premature but honorable
death, eliminating its glow as he smashes
the cherry into tiny bits against the ashtray.

As he sits back against the couch, I can see that
his eyes are now indifferent. Foreign.  With a perplexed
and fascinated stare, he watches the pearly-white smoke
slowly slither upwards towards the ceiling.

There’s no question in my mind that his
soul has fled. Jeremy sinks further into the
couch, turning his vacant eyes in my direction.
I want to *****.

His high-pitched giggle has now subsided into a
low whimper.  Gradually extending his left arm into
the air, he tilts it from side-to-side, examining it as if
an infant discovering his genitals for the first time.  

Bike wheels appear in the corners of the room.
Entertained, his eyes rapidly zigzag from the
corners of the walls to his hands. He asks me
if I can see the wheels. I don’t respond.

Intervals of psychotic emotion begin to cycle. Jeremy’s eyes
fill with tears as he tries to understand the hallucinations
engulfing him.  The expression on his face betrays the reality that
he has stepped onto the never-ending theme-park ride from hell.  

Together we leave and walk to the bus station, Jeremy
walking slowly and whimsically. The bus arrives,
and I hand him a few crumpled, single-dollar
bills as I attempt to instruct him where to get off.  

All I can envision is his mother’s first reaction to her son’s arrival.  
Would she collapse at her son’s knees, crying like a mother whose boy
has come home from war?  Would he forever be an awkward guest
at the dinner table? Would she disown him?  Would he become a feral child?

I no longer know what day it is. I am surrounded by lockers
and students, trapped in a tunnel of shadowy walls.  As I stand
alone, I find myself entranced by the blinding, January sunlight
that floods through the double doors a mile away.

My vision is unexpectedly blocked by a figure
standing in front of me. Clothed in little but jeans
and a bright, white t-shirt, Jeremy stares at me, his eyes
mirroring the emptiness I now feel.  

“Do you have a lighter?”  My hands pointlessly search my pockets for
what I already know is not there. “No, man. Sorry.” A look of confusion
spreads over his face, and I suddenly cannot help but notice the sick irony
of the scene in front of me - Jeremy flooded in light as if born again.  

My thoughts linger here too long, and just as swiftly as Jeremy
appeared, he is a mile away sauntering out through those double
doors. Estranged, I continue to stand here, hoping with
futility that this isn’t the last time I have looked upon him.
Year: 1995
Alex Clinton Feb 2012
you were quiet and i was loud, talkative

you asked to borrow a pencil so i gave you the one with the hellokitty stickers on it just to see you smile

you gave it back with a note and i read in my car in the parking lot after class

it said that you thought my hands were beautiful, but i always thought that they were too small and definitely too pudgy and said so underneath the scrawl of hellokitty’s graphite. oh, and thanks

when i gave it back, you looked confused and turned the scrap over to show me the name on the front and it wasn’t mine

that same day someone slashed the tires on your honda accord
Kylie Rose Oct 2014
She hates that she is a woman
The putrefying weakness perceived in the curves of her body
The naivete shown in her blues
With the unintentional flutter of butterfly lashes
That refuse to meet the glances of those that pass by
The fear-- Of what?
That stereotypes are true?
She doesn't even know
And it sickens her.

She sickens herself.

She hates that she is white
The blandest vanilla
The marble statue
Somehow revered
But simultaneously overlooked
The Caucasian mongrel
In light of the fact that her People
Have no proud history
Which she can name herself heir to

She hates that she is middle class
Not poor enough to struggle
Not rich enough to be free
Just situated dully in the middle
A footnote in the statistic
That they tell her she must use
To identify herself

She hates that her belief system
Has to be called by a name
That she has to choose
To be a part of a group
As part of her "identity"
And she is not allowed
To stand by her own integrity

She hates that she is American
The pudgy, loud-mouthed, laterally-speaking nation
The brashly jumps into conflict
Guns blazing
As its political system decays
In the stench of its overwhelming debt and corruption

But in truth
She hates
That they force her
To whittle her essence down
Into Gender, Race, Class, Religion, and Nationality
A *****-inducing statistic

As if there was nothing more to her
Than the facts surrounding her existence
Meenakshi Iyer Nov 2012
I can cry;
the glorious moon cheats
the dazzling sun wanes
the cloudy sky smirks
the pudgy earth refrains

I can cry;
the man in the sidewalk eats
the woman in bus denies
the children on the playground smell
the puppy on the stairway bites

I can cry;
the riddles in the book defy
the maze and mouse are a lie
the gun for a bullet doesn’t shoot
the whistle in my palm doesn’t hoot.

I can cry;
the thoughts in my head lead astray
the senses of my body can delay
the questions I answered gave away
the answers I’ve forgotten are a mistake.
Her arms semaphore fat triangles,
Pudgy HANDS bunched on layered hips
Where bones idle under years of fatback
And lima beans.

Her jowls shiver in accusation
Of crimes cliched by Repetition.
Her children, strangers
To childhood's TOYS, play
Best the games of darkened doorways,
Rooftop tag, and know the slick feel of
Other people's property.

Too fat to *****,
Too mad to work,
Searches her dreams for the
Lucky sign and walks bare-handed
Into a den of bereaucrats for her portion.

'They don't give me welfare.
I take it.'
Jimmy King Jan 2014
We’d sit on the back porch
On the Fourth of July
Spitting watermelon seeds
Into the tall grass,
Which glimmered in the midday sun.

The competition of who could spit the farthest
Never really with a winner,
It was mostly about the feeling of the sun,
Glimmering on our pudgy cheeks,
And the opportunity to abandon our napkins,
Letting that cool watery juice spill
Down our white shirts, leaving pink stains
And permanent reminders of summer

Of course a tattoo is only as permanent
As the body that wears it:
I outgrew the shirts around the same time
As the world outgrew those little black seeds

This year on the Fourth of July
We sat inside making small talk
Because there weren’t any black seeds
In the watermelon we ate:
Just dehydrated flesh, the color a little
Farther from pink and closer
To the off-white color of those flakey little seeds,
Which were miraculously allowed to remain
Pain in the thighs
from the endless straddles
Pin ****** in the ribs
from a poorly made white willows dress

All are things much desired by a pudgy adolescent female  
A garment of ill conceived freedom
An illusion
Of frolic in utopia

It was just a small gate way to the mud caked feet
And into the auto eclipses
Of stargazing zombies
Those still relied on vintage kaleidoscopes
All Full of cracks

See in her bleeding ignorance
the shores still remained open
Turquoise schooners unleashed

The tree tops were still aching to be claimed
Reincarnated as a paradise for attractive drifters

Not even the all mouth beasts
can contain her patented enthusiasm
The straw huts break for assembly
under a tiny hand

Too bad the cracks have been secured
The air was kept to boil
and stain the linoleum
Echoes of a puritan called to action

The streams soon hardened
to form plastic shelving
And the orange flowers collapse
to form packing materials

Onto the plastic shelving is were we placed the books
The books that know that freedom
is just copy right infringement
And life is a micromanaging instruction
Designed to make workers eat their own demise

Grid-less prosperity
cremated in the corner of a starter home
Only an anthropologic mistake
Meant to ward of a mass pandemic of sudden infant death syndrome

The pudgy filled girl,
The comedic car and the overproduced dress

They will learn the value of a hot meal and a good *******
The dreamers almost stole her away
in their patchwork parachute
But we sent her away to Universidad
And the world is her worthless cluster ****!
Marshal Gebbie Mar 2019
I gaze into my crystal ball, discern amidst the haze
A world so far removed from that of now, it would amaze,
Where catapulting incidents collide like billiard *****
And sense defies belief as renaissance makes the calls.

Blueprints fresh from Internet supply the suitcase blast
Where the terrorist’s, simultaneously, ignite in cities cast
From Moscow to New York, Beijing to Berlin
Gay Paree to London town then way out east again,
Budapest, Jerusalem Calcutta burning all
And Tokyo is levelled in a ghastly nuclear pall.

Kneejerk reaction triggers contrails in the blue
Crisscrossing all the continents obliterating through
An overkill so vicious that in seconds it is past
And the living cling in horror, bearing witness… aghast.

Restraints are erased as the opportunists dash
Flotillas from the Spratleys sprint to occupy and cash
In on the minerals, oil and potential food supplies
Of uncontaminated nations found beneath Pacific skies.
Hindi, Jew and Muslim settle scores bereft with years
Of resentment accrued in a flood of blood and tears.

A sudden realisation of immensity of loss
Curtails the destruction in retrenchment across
The habitable outposts, the dearth of supply
And the daunting prospects of a nuclear winter sky.
Global collapse of all electronic gear
No power, no phones, and no cars now…for years.
Electromagnetic impulse put paid to all that
And the day is as dark as the cold night is black.

And here all we sit, in the here and the now
On the verge of catastrophes’ teetering tower,
With a fools pudgy finger just inches above
The nuclear button…and all that we love.
……You fear the insanity, sense the insane
Knowing that people like this are holding the reign?
Knowing that volatility strikes
Like the shot of a gun and the ****** of a knife.

I don’t have the answers to hand
But someone out there, knows how…and can.
The sands of time are running low


Planet Earth
6 March 2019
JayceeJellies Apr 2015
He appears tough, he stands tall.
But truly, underneath it all,
He's sympathetic, vulnerable.
I can't believe myself for being so horrible.

It's true that I love him,
With my heart and soul.
But's it's somewhat-

My space I feel is shifting.
I can't tell if it's a good thing.
I want him close, near by.
However, I feel scared inside.

Will he think I'm too lazy?
What if in reality I appear pudgy.
Sure, he says he doesn't mind.
I'll just be his tubby for life.

Which I kinda like,
But still.

These insecurities.
They drown me.
Very slowly,
They're suffocating.

Please God, is it too much to ask for?
Just for once, to enjoy being loved.
I want him to pick me up in an embrace!
For ***** sake, can't I just, take off these weights...

I've hurt him.
I have nothing else to say.
JJ Hutton Feb 2013
the priest, whose tomato face looked like it might explode under collar tension,
gave the valedictory at the friday night execution
the yellow-toothed, combover'd serial killer buckled in electric chair
kept staring at the door, expecting an ally to crawl in late but not too late
the mother of one of the victims rattled on about
how she didn't care that the killer had an allergy to the anesthetic used
in lethal injection      he's going to die either way     what's it matter?
buzz of fly    crack of rolled program against empty folding chair
(yes, there were programs, and whoever laid them out knew their typography)
buzz of fly raised upward, toward the black, magma-cooled ceiling
audience chin up, pupils circled fly as the priest droned on
about everlasting life like a Paul Simon song from his youth
like a catcher's mitt from his youth like a youth from his youth
the boyfriend of one of the mothers of one of the victims
said he was hungry    pancakes sound good, don't they?
I love it when syrup gets on the bacon, you know? love that.
a pudgy guard with bleary eyes and 12 a.m. shadow
rolled his index finger   lowered his brow, telling the
priest to wrap it up   so the priest wrapped it up
by reading the names of the victims
Tara Barnes, 17, Rachel Lythe, 10, Julie McPherson, 13,
Serenity Strongman, 15, and Mary Beth Williamson, 13
the priest said something about judgement as
the boyfriend of the mother of one of the victims
took another swat at the fly                       missed
any last words? the priest asked
where's James? the killer asked, he was supposed to be here
did you guys give him the right time?
the guard nodded to a lab coat by a black box
then a hiss then a hum then an inhale
the first jolt of alternating current for

instantaneous brain death

hard to tell if they succeeded in that
for the second jolt came only a moment
later    this shock's aim to fatally damage
the internal organs, overstimulate the heart
and the killer's face looked like a horse's leg
then an exhale then a hum then a hiss
and the killer's face looked like the crinkled
skinmemory of a cicada
it was late   most of the best restaurants already closed
but we could go to that diner off 63rd, the boyfriend
of the mother
of one of the victims, said
they take the fruit of thy wombs
to march under plastic lights
box them next to bombs dressed as

shudder-filled and gaping eye-lets on
shoeshined leather shoes
jaundiceyellow dresses,
skeletonwhite tights on fertile limbs
for sunday-fundsday in polyestered churches

(unholy penises
clandestine vaginas
bitter *******
pails and pails of rotten milk)

the spermcelled youth does
(shut down in silence)
like ancient ocean waves pinned
to walls of basements
(if ever there once existed a single thought
poured into vocabulary like thick honey
it has been yanked,

the doublewhites pinguid with natural resources
at the stroke of the clock, seven minutes
darwin's darlings

top of the line

highways in their white & yellow
white picket fenced lines
lineages that stretch on for miles in every dusty yearbook
inside every polished private school
long lines of feminine hair
hanging from the neck
pulled by pudgy pink hands
assembly lines of them at midlife
(pensioned & post-thanksgiving-dinner days,
in conveyor belts
waiting to be shot
this is the first poem i have written that i can say i am truly proud of
We're two feathers from the same bird,
tail and wing.
You can't tell when we're floating together
Which fell first, and which followed
Or even
What happened to the bird.
All we know is that some young thing will grip us in his tiny hands,
Pick us up from the ***** ground
And hold us together in-between two pudgy fingers
Imagining he can fly because of us.
Shelley Jun 2014
crammed in corrals
hissing whispers of escape
and hoping their
size and shade
the next sticky-fingered cart rider

mother's mind so mobbed
and arms so grocery-laden
that the ribbed
and loosely coiled ribbon
remains unknotted, unbowed
to slip
from pudgy-fingered grips

the orb bobs and sways–
laughing, helium-high
as it makes its getaway
unknowingly following Icarus
to a solar ******
that is, if beak or plane
doesn't reach it first

shattered and tattered, irreparable
it plummets back to earth

its noose
still dangling from its neck
Sexual Pansexual Nov 2013
I want to be skinny.
Skin and bones,
No awkward lumps,
No pudgy cheeks.
Just beauty.

How am supposed to be perfect?
With societies expectations.
No more pain,
No more sorrow.
Just serenity.

I just want to be loved.
By someone who cares.
No more loneliness.
No more tears.
Just love.

Unattainable wanting.*
The only thing I feel.
Things I can never have.
Alice Butler Jan 2013
I. The lifespan of a pumpkin is incredibly short. Considering the rapid pace in which a pumpkin goes from flower to fruition, it is quite literally a blink of an eye. And there is no nobility in a pumpkin death. No, it is a long and grueling process. From the beginning, the pumpkin patch is like Wall Street, 1763. Being poked and prodded, weighed, gawked at and compared to my brothers and sisters. I was chosen earlier than the rest for my robust size, even ridges, and vivid colour. I remember being severed from the vine- I know that humans don’t remember being cut from the umbilical cord, but it’s the only human experience I can compare it to. I imagine that if I had lungs I would scream or eyes I would cry, but I suppose the lack of these organs is what makes it so easy for humans to humiliate us as they do. We have no voice of our own- and who would stand up for us? Possibly vegans, but I digress.
Once inside the human home, I’m set on a “tiled countertop,” as they call it. I’m not sure what that is exactly, but it’s polished and hard and artificial. The coldness of it makes my skin stiffen. And then, as if overcome by brain fever, the smaller humans rush about their living space grabbing up “newspapers” and “paper towels” (no doubt made from abused trees) and just as I had feared, knives. More polished coldness. I know what is to come- I’ve heard the cautionary tales. When my siblings and I hung on the vine as buds, we’d swap horror stories. Of course, we didn’t think that they were real then. Though we had seen older pumpkins snatched up, we were too young to understand. And now that I know it’s all true, my fear isn’t for myself but for my kin. I know that it isn’t normal for humans to hope for their loved ones to rot, but it is for pumpkins. I hope that they will grow old, old, old until the day comes that they quietly fall off the vine and become food for the animals and the soil and their seeds impregnate the earth. And though I may be faced with this violent fate, I am not going to be afraid. I shall not sweat, nor make my skin tough to their blades. No, I will be soft as butter and dry as the sky. As the humans pick up their tools of operation and discuss what kinds of sweet treats they’ll be making with my “guts,” I yield to the steel and dare them to do their worst…

II. They’re finished now, and I’ve been gutted to within an inch of my life. My insides are piled in a white bowl beside me, my seeds rest on a tin sheet, dried of juice and covered in salt. Their skin is transparent and flaky like fish scales and the flesh underneath is toasted brown. They baked my babies! They baked my babies and now they’re popping them into their pudgy, glistening mouths like the giant who used bones to bake his bread. It occurs to me that I can see more of the room than I originally could. It makes sense… now that half my skin is gone that I should have a clearer view of the world. The oldest human walks over to the small ones.
“What did you make guys?” she asks.
“A face!” they exclaim. Was my original face not good enough?
At this point I catch a glimpse of the “face” that is being discussed. Behind the humans is a painted forest locked in by a sheet of glass. On the spotless surface I see my reflection- my smooth, rounded skin has become a hideously comical mask. Two triangles and a semicircle make up this face, the mouth being a jaunty one-toothed smile, a sweet ironical touch. A hanging man with a grin. A tiny white candle has been lowered into my hollowed out stomach and lit. The flame burns my core and scorches my skin in some places to a charcoal black.
My consciousness is sliding around now… from the kitchen to the pumpkin patch and back again… The fire in my belly has dulled to a pleasant burn… maybe because I’m so cold and now I’ve gotten colder… they’ve taken me outside… placed me on an artificial hay bale… more children appear with plastic replicas of me dangling from their polyester-draped arms… they grin and their smiles match the “pumpkins’” smiles on their arms, match mine… this is all too hilarious…
“Trick or treat!”
Very short. It was supposed to be a monologue for my theatre class, but I was too nervous to perform it in front of others.
take your index finger, wait. stop, rewind ( yes I do this, and yes it is funny, you have no idea.)

goto a quite room, with little light, so your natural body will turn up the microphones in your head...

now, touch your index finger to your thumb, on off, on off, now your *******, on off on off, now your ring finger ( do it with both hands cause then you will feel the tone flow interruptions or focus of. that is) now your highest tone your little piggy went to the market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy said *** is he on? well, did you hear the difference in your resonate tones? do it, you will, and when you do, you will, then realize a few things and why I do what it is I so freakishly do, and sorry I imitate not 12 monkeys, for it is the normal switcheroo, I understand it, now, do you?

Oh yes my *** can Writ like no ones business, funny how I have removed all, long ago, but hum, I keep being told........... to Writ ... any way. have a loving full flow and full spectrum day, um, everyone says High vibs.... this and that.. um full spectrum son, but place your will in the correct ways and places on the correct things, and then you will see the point, yes we are going higher in tone, but um, who the hell said forget what you have already known to be functional, isnt that what happened last times we forgot.......?
Hum along with me, hum along with the TV , hum along.. ohh ohh ohh

Jane's Addiction STOP

Stop! (Live) Lyrics
Jane's Addiction

Save the complaints for a party conversation
The world is loaded, it's lit to pop and nobody is gonna stop...
No one... No one! No way! Gonna stop, now; go!
Farm people, book wavers, soul savers, love preachers!
Lit to pop and nobody is gonna stop
One come a day, the water will run
No man will stand for things that he had done...
And the water will run...
One come a day, the water will run
No man will stand for things that he had done...
And the water will run...
Will Run!
Will Run!
Gimmie that!
Gimmie that -- your automobile, turn off that smokestack and
That ******* radio - hum... along with me...
Hum along with the t.v. A-a-a-a-m-m-m-m-m-m
No one's-gonna-stop
Michael Ryan Aug 2014
When you sit atop the clouds.
Will you peek through the glistening white strings of cotton.
To peer upon the shining smiles of the ones that you loved.
Maybe you will avoid their glances to the sky.
Maybe you will avoid them all together, and never watch their eyes, once more.
That even in the cloudy paradise of fluffy cotton candy.
There is pain that seeps into the pores of your fleshy, pudgy being.
Even while surrounded by pure existence.
Those ones still hurt your inside the most.
Not because of what they've done, but because of what you've done.
That after your final shadows has crossed the earth beneath .
You knew that your final bow was the greatest blow you ever dealt the, ones below.
Forever left to faded shadows and corrupted memories.
Signs that were hidden beneath your vague expressions.
Only thing left was the one time you cried out your pain to those below.
A simple ode to those lovely faces, typed out across your Macintosh .
The world through a looking glass
Only shattered for a brief moment before the show came to an end.  
A simple message,
I'll watch you from the clouds above.
My existence is a rather meek one.  The thought of simply walking outside leads no benefit, when simply walking outside is a lesser ideal than not having to walk ever again.
Alyssa Sunico Sep 2013
I dream of you
And the deep tonality you echo
The sincerity etched to my bone
So that I will never forget the fact

I dream of you
And the pudgy child that came running
Always in the background, always full of wonder
Laughing at things I will never forget

I dream of you
And the sweet nothings you whisper on the dial
The excitement that takes over when I read your letters
The constant reminder of the words I will never forget

I dream of you
And the verbal abuses we bicker back and forth dripped with regret
A cat and mouse chase waiting to fight for the death until one surrenders
Forfeiting the chase I will never forget

I dream of you
And the insecurity of your constant necessity of reassurance
Temporary amnesia you always had towards my own honesty
Forgetting to tell you the words I will never forget

I dream of you
And the opportunities I will never use to convince you
Never will I be able to touch your skin or kiss your lips
I will never forget the last time you said “I love you”.
laura Apr 2018
got a lovely tatty on ya left leggy
got no motivation or inspiration
but that *** needs lotsa smackin'
or maybe mine does, red from your hands

bittercress amongst the flowers outdoors
warding dancing birdflit
of people friendly pudgy pigeons
man i hate the birds, the people

singing their arias, their liturgy
feeling like they know somebody
in the canon, me in the sheets listening
to their rumors, trying to break our secret
Kendra B Jun 2014
The Sun.
She is Golden
Crying out to me as she dignifies the morning.
Blinding me.
Encasing me in her warm arms.
Comforting my wonders as I stare up into her pudgy round face.
Feeding my thought.
Her smooth touch across my cocoa colored skin,
It makes me just want to watch her,
And lie there forever.
As life happens,
And time passes by.

© 2014 Kendra Bowman

With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!


Glowing red eyes and glistening fangs,

These unspeakable giant bugs drop into view.*

Fibrous wings furred like a moth,

Big ears are just a membranous extension of antennae.

Flying in search of a flower’s pollen laden froth,

Silent except for the hum and squeak of echolocation.

Trap bats in attics, butterflies in nets.

No rabies feared, no bedbug bites to itch.

Clawed feet ****** and grab like praying mantis pincers;

Bloated stomach slopes like a pudgy beetle.

Jaws manipulate like an ant, excise like scissors;

Soft hair rustles like a wooly caterpillar.

They live in darkness, centipedes do too,

Come out at night like cockroaches tend to.

Skittering through the night like daddy long-legs,

Noses snubbed like bumble bee faces.

Wind turbines endanger bats,

Like fans endanger lightning bugs.

Only one percent of bats are vampiric,

Like only a small percentage of spiders are poisonous.


With a creepy, tingling sensation you hear the fluttering of leathery wings!


Bats are bugs, aren’t they?
*Adapted from a Calvin and Hobbes comic strip by Bill Watterson
haley Feb 2018
She has a heart that beats like the constant rolling of the waves
That kicks against her mother’s chest as to always assure her
“I am here, Mom”
Her mother hears, whispers
while streatching out her swollen legs in the bath
“The world is not on your shoulders
And you do not have to carry it around, nudged in the blades of your back”
She swims in her mother’s stomach
Practicing her backstroke and doggy paddle
She plucks the flower of her mother’s breast
With her sleepy mouth as to always assure her
“I need you” Mom
She has bones like flowers planted in the soil of her mother’s smiles
And drooping eyes
Sprouting against the warmth of her chest, she touches the buds
of her blossoming fingers to her mother’s heart
She stumbles with her pudgy little legs,
teeters, slips, crashes down to the floor
And still manages to avoid the cracks in the
Or her mother’s aching back
As if to assure her
“I love you, Mom”
JLB Apr 2014
“Zoomy zoomy zoomy zonch, crawly, crawl **** youzy you.” the caterpillar said. She was tired of wrapping and unwrapping herself for him. She knew how much he liked it and needed it. But it was ALL he needed. Her pudgy little flesh, ready to chew and spit out. Nothing ever hurt more than that. “At  least swallow me.” She said. “At least end me. But, no. Now when I go to cocoon, I’ll be sad and cold and covered in spit. “ But he nibbled her and gave her a squeeze and a slap and called it affection and went on away.
Poor little caterpillar. Her butterfly-self better be beautiful and fleeting. Because if you come round again, poor little girl gonna fly away swiftly, you best believe.
Deana Luna Oct 2012
At night I like to rest my fingertips on the protruding hipbone that is still covered by a fleshy layer of cushion. Of fat.
Why do we shy away from that description so often?
Those three letters haunted me more than anything for the past 7 years, and I would hear it all too often.
And when I didn't hear it, I'd see it in their eyes.
I was not like the rest of them.
No Abercrombie for this pudgy middle schooler, and no eating candy unless I wanted to be ridiculed and stereotyped.
But not until my senior year of high school did it finally get to me.
I stopped eating. One almond at most and nothing else.
All synonymous in my head.
Now it's completely different.
I embrace my beautiful body.
Every curve, every scar, every red engrained stretch mark.
I wear them with pride.
I take off my shirt for my lovers without fear or shame.
My body is bigger than societies idealistic and impossible standards of beauty...
And thank
Kate Lion May 2015


Lilac-scented winds
furtively creep through
the window, rhythmically
stroking the lily-white hair
that rests upon her hunched

Thin levees barricade
the emerging seas of salt
as the stationary clouds
dissipate from the
sapphire ice crystals that
encircle her atramentous

Beneath her round,
brittle cheekbones
ancient ravines wind
downwards toward
her steep, narrow
chin, pointing at a
skeletal frame blanketed
in an off-white, floral gown.

Blotchy, autumn, amber
hands cradle the pudgy
infant’s limp body.  She
smiles as she presses her
chapped lips on the baby’s
smooth, plastic head.

She leans back in her
chair of solace, rocking
back-and-forth to the
pulsating tempo of her
heartbeat. Her world is
in perfect harmony.
Sleepy Sigh Sep 2010
I like my headphones for the
Insulation. Sometimes my ears
Take in too much stray noise,
Dredge up too much disorienting
Mud from the depths of a TV
Screen or an iPod. Then I can
Always snuggle into my headphones
And be silent - and silence is a
Dear dear commodity, to be sure,
When every other scene-
Stealing, pudgy-mouthed buffoon
Has to put his ten cents in. So
Much sound should be a sin;
Background music, ambient noise,
Music for airports, and pubescent
Boys screeching from tinny silver
Speakers near the wall. I don't
Want it, not every bit, not all
The hate and the slippery tongues
That speak and salivate and don't
Say anything human. I want to reprimand,
To excommunicate them from
This Holy rite of sound. (And really,
I would be content to never hear
Music if I could block out the roundabout
Fights and the sultry nightlife descriptions
Gushing from my screen, if I could
Use my headphones to keep
That liquid crystal from pouring in
My too needfully silent ears.)
Maybe I'll follow a painter's path:
All visuals and open dripping wet
Wrath with a noisy race. I can be a
Terrifying girl. Cut off my ears and
Be deaf to the world. Wrap me in
Canvas and chase me back into the
Woods on a starry starry night.
you know the drill

Overwhelmed Mar 2011
At lunch
she studies on the stairs
the ones hidden away
behind some double doors
in the back of the cafeteria

I got in there
to buy my soda
(the only machine that
sells cans is in there)
and I see her

she’s not pretty,
pudgy face,
hood on her head,
eyes wild
as I put my dollar in
and hit the button for
a diet coke

I see her there

my back is turned
but I feel her stare,
I feel the apprehension at me
entering her sanctum in the air

I contemplate a greeting,
but realize that’s too much.

so I whistle

whistle plain and clear

most would think it normal,
a small task to do while I wait for my drink,
but if one listened closely
and just happened to know the tune
they’d know what I whistled
to that friendless,
Muslim girl
was that
one day
she too
would be
brooke Jan 2013
My face is
a common
(c) Brooke Otto
Stefanie Meade Apr 2014
I walk past the old woman
who wears unflattering red lipstick,
vivid as cartoon blood,
and jeweled chopsticks in her hair.
We meet haunted eyes,
full of defiant sorrows.

The pudgy little girl streaks past,
pigtails askew, sandals mismatched
by herself or a harried mother
she is either running to, or away from.

The boy with the closed face,
like a letter that no one opens
for fear of what it might hold,
reaches for the same book I am reaching for.
We smile at one another, surprised.

Such small things bring recognition.
We are the same inside.
We are all fighting something.

— The End —