"stubbly" poems
Infant of painful belly
sleeps only when held upright,
gently bounced,
seeking skin contact,
the family scent, family touch,
flesh to flesh.
My daughter, so tired,
new mother, must rest.
Men need to do things. At least, I do.
The porch rail remains half-built,
the truck idles roughly,
not this evening’s chore.
Just as I once rocked my daughter, now
her babe sleeps with warm little cheek
against my stubbly old,
hot puffs of breath
on my grainy neck.
Some day, grandson, you may wear
my scent of sweat, sawdust, motor oil.
For now you smell of milk, mommy, peace.
Life is so basic with a baby:
doing nothing, giving comfort,
the work of love.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:08 PM UTC
whispers the stubbly face of the old grandpa,
or I'll blow fierce little airs all over your rigidly
pretending-to-be-asleeping cute little facey,
then tickle your kissable little
lips
and make farty noises
for the rest of the day
she, irresistibly, bursts out laughing
like the roaring lioness she be,
whose cubs might be threatened,
and laughingly squeals, oh poppy!
it's all your fault, you grumpy old poet,
you made me put the *** in my
peej's!
and how his son,
the father,
on permanent overwatch,
growls below annoyingly,
"great,
now we'll be late,"
and
threatens to tell the
attractive single second grade teacher,
upon whom
he has a semi-secret crushing,
to which
we two devils scream out,
"oh please, oh please"
knowing she will find it quite
charming, and maybe even him,
tooing,
the single attractive father-man
who, could be ripe for a
twoing
><
and poppy twinkles,
thinking that no
matter what you
call it,
that thing,
is all-around and
in~between us while
he changes the young lady's
sheeting
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 2:31 PM UTC
embraced within your own shabby clothes
drink the fireplace in and out through your nose
cross-eyed women eat a lot of chicken
while symbiotic brothers deny
that they blindly love their father's ghosts
and you are sordid like a cat
now i'm glad we got that sorted out
give an ounce of fat and you’ll get a pound of muscle
students take tests in bottomless basements
and are trained to use sandpaper for dusting
some of whom immediately fail examination
solely because their faces are too **** stubbly (ugly)
i shudder at the thought of stopping in the middle
so remove the dissonant fiddle and sit indian style
as riddles are permutations of words
that are sometimes thousands of years old
and gone are the shovels that we use to dig up our souls
your headaches are baked like pound-cakes in the dirt
indecent muffles were heard thirty miles west of earth
hesitate and you’ll die, so rise up and learn to fly
undress the legacy that keeps you chained to lies
this fire is hot and so is your disguise
strategies are as strange as fiction
and i deflect your indecisive missiles
with perfect vision crystallized
and then compounded like coal into diamonds
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 2:19 PM UTC
I’m a country boy, girl
And I don’t usually act this way
But what have you gone and done
To make me hope you’re crying today
What have you forced me to?
Now I got nothing left to say
I’m locked and loaded baby,
So you best get out the way
I’m armed to the hilt
I’ve got lead up till the teeth
Guns cocked on the table
Rhinestone boots with high-riding heels beneath
I got my aviators on, stubbly
I tug at my neckerchief against the dust
Of that love that we destroyed
Now point-scoring replaces where once was trust
You’ve got me to the point where
I just want to see what can **** you off
How did this all get so ugly between us?
Call somebody who cares, enough is enough.
I hope you’re lying awake tonight
I pray that you’re scared to sleep
Because that’s how you made me feel
Leaving me feeling so shallow when I got so deep
I hope you don’t know where you are
I hope you don’t know how far you have to fall
I never want you back again, he can have you
You never saw this coming? It was writing on the wall
Baby, one day you’re gonna realise
It doesn’t matter who was right
Because at the end of it all
Nobody ever wins a fight.
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
Who is he, Who is he
The broad shouldered
Stubbly chinned
Tired eyed
He is a young man
Who is she, Who is she
The sloping shouldered
Sparsely peach fuzzed
Bright eyed
She is a young woman
Why is he, Why is he
Squishing inside her small frame
Scraping his beard against her shaven face
Marring her youthful eyes with his tiredness
He is a young man
Why is she, Why is she
Crippling her stroll with his swaggering stomps
Darkening her skin with his brunette stubble
Masking his age with her dazzling irises
She is a young woman
Who is he
Who is she
Why is he
Why is she
Trapped
Jul 22, 2012
Jul 22, 2012 at 2:12 AM UTC
Oh glorious day, did my eyes deceive?
So long the wait had been I could not believe,
That the time had come, so bright and fair,
My poor and barren chin would no longer be bare.
No more would I shave in vain attempt
To feel manly and escape contempt
From my bearded brother, whom according to he,
Could grow a full beard by the age of 3.
Oh how he'd be proven wrong from now on,
That even 'Baby Faced Jack' could possibly grow one,
Soon I'd have more hair than could be counted.
So much in fact I would never be discounted,
By burly builders and stubbly cooks
And have my age judged as 12 based on my looks.
Oh, what possibilities could be within my grasp,
Sideburns, goatees, chin beards OOH A Moustache
Ah, so many new ways to help me look prim and distinguished,
Like Hugh Jackman but better because I'm... English?
But as I pet, stroke and caress this wonderful hair,
My eyes widen in fear and despair
It was not what it seemed, it just wasn't fair,
This wonderful thing must have come from elsewhere,
For as I prided over becoming a man,
That tiny hair fell off right into my hand.
Dec 24, 2018
Dec 24, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC
Shriveled up,
the body was
as it lay in shambles
behind the bus
No longer a person
no certain gender
globs of brain and hair
stuck to the fender
Screams were heard
across the street
as the driver stumbled out
and collapsed to his knees
Tears trailed down
his stubbly cheeks
as he crawled his way
down the street
He stared in disbelief
at the heap
of skin, blood, bones and ****
at his feet
He started to *****
and started to pray
he ran his son over
on father's day.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 10:05 PM UTC
I calibrate and exuberate when I bring my new level,
these girls look me in my eyes and lie to me they can't push the right pedal.
I wish I knew a girl true to the heart and not after an agenda,
a real love rather than the alternative such as Splenda.
When will I learn this love is practically unattainable in this crazy world, especially in this globalized Computerworld.
Call me pessimistic or just down right ugly,
or maybe I'm just roughly stubbly part of this muggy money.
I wish we were utopian and part of simpler times,
but this is unreasonable and not realistic as we live in lifetimes of nonstop wartimes.
Dec 18, 2016
Dec 18, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
stubbly chin
you within
hands explore
our naked skin
lips so soft
molten bliss
tingle touching
squeeze **** kiss
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 11:19 AM UTC
Summer's dripping slowly in
Covering the city with a thin layer of green
The blue sky letting the sun make your skin sweat
I wake up
Mind cluttered
Face stubbly
Kinda hungover ? Or am I ****** ?
Get up ,get dressed ,wash up ,eat
And I'm off
Both feet glued to my pedals
Mind focused
Mind cleared
I'll bike away
Jun 6, 2017
Jun 6, 2017 at 12:54 AM UTC
We're both sweating
As the fan blows over
Our naked bodies
The air conditioner is broken
And we can't beat the heat
So we create our own
Passion between the sheets
"I love you so much"
You whisper in my ear
I close my eyes
To prevent the tears
But bring you closer
As we ******
And try to breathe
While I gasp,
"I love you too"
I hold your stomach
Hugging you tight
Kissing your belly button
Looking up into your eyes
You sit down and hold me
So I can bury my head
Into your stubbly, curly chest
"It's okay,"
"You can cry if you want to,"
You tell me
As I breathe heavily
Unsure of why
I'm even crying in the first place
You kiss my cheeks
After wiping away my tears
With your beautiful brown thumbs
I can't help but cry more
With every peck from your lips
You pour me sparkling cider
And kiss the raspberry apple bubbles
Off my lips
I try to stop crying
As I tell you
I love you
As I tell you
How important you are to me
But I'm drunk in love
And the tears keep falling
So you keep kissing them away
As you tell me it's okay to cry
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 9:39 PM UTC
There's far too much
to say about our
invisible electricity, our complicated
simplicity that fills me
with just enough joy
to last me through
my day of toxicity.
To make me hunger
for your sweet, stubbly
kiss that fills the
little hole that was so
viciously knawing
at my soul.
In love, I can't pretend
in life, my bestfriend
I can't stop the emotions
that slowly creep up
expand and distend
foreign feelings, I am
able to happily follow
yet not comprehend.
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 11:13 PM UTC
Pressure points
Swollen joints
Lack of worth
Feelings hurt
Stubbly hair
On a body bare
Mental strain
No productive gain
Chemicals inhaled
Heart impaled
Sweat glistening
Am I listening?
Senses depleting
Dreams, fleeting
Pounding winces
Accompanied by worry,
because "I" don't wanna miss this.
I'm not leaving in a hurry
Ink on skin,
Temporary stain
The light is within
The love will remain
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 1:45 PM UTC
Jesus Christ. Do you always look like this?
I forced my eyes open. I felt like I was on an old roller coaster with a broken axle.
What the **** is wrong with you?
I tried to focus but it made my eye muscles hurt. So I closed them again.
Get up!
So I sat up. My stomach hurt.
Get up!
I braced myself with my arms. My skin was burning.
It's almost four!
Why are you being so loud?
Because it's almost four!
I laid back down and put my chin to my chest so the tendons in my back could stretch out.
Did you hear me?
I heard you.
You know I'm not going to feel bad for you.
Could you go away then?
It's almost four!
I don't have to be up til seven.
Four in the afternoon four. Itll be dark in two hours four.
I squeezed my eye lids together and yanked the scratchy yellow blanket up past my shoulder.
...
Then why do I even have to bother getting up?
Because that's what people do. They get up and have lives.
That's really cool for people. But I'm not a people. I'm the biggest man in the world.
What?
I'm still asleep.
What the **** is wrong with you?
I'm still asleep.
...
My stomach wretches. Go get a bucket.
What?
Go get a bu-. I roll onto my side and puke off of the mattress and onto the grey stubbly carpet.
What the ****
I think I'm okay now.
Feb 10, 2010
Feb 10, 2010 at 8:05 PM UTC
Ever the musical wonderer, he happened
upon the perfect pad it harmonics were
excellent for the voice he had.
Through the day he would sing, he would
try other locations. The shore, but the waves
would splash out his unique sound.
Trees were a challenge specially for those
rather stubbly knees. But he jumped and
Sang an for his troubles a splinter he had.
Under water was a choose but sound was
but bubbles that rose above, not sound but
more like burps with a tune singing out.
He went to his spot, many had he tried so
long had he been gone from home to long.
The best spot for the acoustics choosing of his voice.
But too his sorrow it was gone, had it been taken?
moved away? he sang on the shore in moonlights
glare as tears interrupted his angelic serenade.
But it had heard his voice and from the depths it
raised, it had missed its companion gone all these
days, it slowly opened it took a night and day.
For when it was ready the frog jumped with joy,
not with a splash, not a belly display. He landed
gently on this pad and his music did play.
The flower did blossom at such a harmony,
and not of the usual colours, for each petal was a
moment of this frog unique beautiful sound.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
smoke stacks babble their chemical love note to the gods,
huffing and clawing
and spewing their pumice
at the morning sky,
a milky stairway to heaven
dispatching
the greasy whims of a faceless man with an unquenchable addiction.
it towers over the overstuffed veins of the highway,
where a once square body
contorts its aluminum frame to mimic the spiraling form of nature,
spilling its fleshy guts into dry winter wind.
the steaming rubber neck of the world cranes itself
longer than the Mississippi
to gawk at its own mortality.
in the distance,
the steely blue city veils her face with haze,
stoic and sturdy, she stares into the thin air
past the ardent, bleeding
display of humanity
gushing
awkward onto her concrete stomach
and staining the stubbly black and beige
with sticky finger prints.
the city takes a long drag off her metallic cigarette
and sighs
exhaust,
blanketing the sky in morgue sheets.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 5:12 PM UTC
No more shall we tread the dusty lanes of youth
or lie amidst the meadows dancing flowers,
marvelling at nature’s simple truths,
recumbent ‘neath the cherry’s florid bowers.
To drink the crystal waters of the stream
or watch the red throats in their watery home
and gaze at Dragon flies adream
or dig for pig nuts in the sandy loam.
Deep in the bracken oft we lay
to watch the towering citadels float by,
then up again and off once more we’d go
beneath that vast dominion of the sky.
Though sixty years and more have quickly flown
yet still the memories come flooding back,
bright memories that live in me alone
of friends like Sara, Joe and Toothless Jack.
What fun we’d have in far off distant days
at harvest when the corn was cut and bound,
we’d help the farmer build it into stooks,
like little houses on the stubbly ground.
In winter when the north wind brought us snow
our sledges from the coal house we’d all bring,
and joyfully, with faces all aglow
heedless of the bitter wind we’d sing!
A candle in a jam jar for a light
hung from a stick and held on high,
would cast long shadows in the wintry night
that followed us wherever we passed by.
Gleefully we’d breach the wind blown drifts
and make our tunnels in the spotless snow,
hoping that the blizzard never lifts,
as through the fields and byways we would go.
But now all things are changed for good or ill,
The wind comes from the south and brings us rain
I think this nothing but a bitter pill,
and would make the howling North Wind King again!
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
Sat on the pew as a boy
My hand brushed the formica underneath
Holding the hymn book like it was a toy
I bit it with my small stubbly teeth
Mother tapped me forcefully on the shoulder
And I shirked at her disapproving frown
It's only now as I become a lot older
That I realise I was behaving like a clown
The priest in all his glory spoke high from the holy table
And I yawned as my father gave me a look
Whispering to my mother ‘the boys unstable’
His bony fingers took away the heavy book
The old lady started playing the tune
So we all stood to sing a hymn
Hoping the droning would finish soon
I thought should I sing but the chances were slim
The old lady with a wrinkly grin
Waved the collection tin in my face
Mother passed some coins that I dropped in
And then we left the cold hallowed place
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 4:43 AM UTC
Did your da ask you
For the ciggies? Kennedy
Asks, his nose holding
Onto a piece of snot, his
Lemony eyes giving you
The big stare, the chin
Stubbly and grey, the
Mouth, a deserted
Cemetery of broken
Tomb-like teeth. He
Did so, you reply, looking
Away from the eyes,
Taking in the cigarettes
Behind the counter of the
Small tobacconist shop,
Feeling the sweat on your
Collar, smelling Kennedy’s
Breath, the stink of tobacco
And ale, and Mrs Fitzsimmons
Behind you, scratching her
**** tut-tutting impatiently,
Jabbing you in the back with
The bony finger of her other
Hand, saying in her baritone
Voice: Are you going to give
The boy the ciggies or not
As my shitearse of an
Husband’s waiting for his
Tea and I need his old ****
Before he leaves for work.
Kennedy hands you the
Ciggies with the big sigh
And stern stare and you
Hand him the coins sweaty
And damp and smell the
Scent of fear and anxiety
Lingering in the evening air.
Mar 25, 2013
Mar 25, 2013 at 3:18 PM UTC
Hear the ***** of glasses,
shriek of chairs against wood,
photos streamed across walls
elbowing for attention.
Smell the sawdust simmer from the floor,
knife-carved letters etched
decades before by dead hands,
wishbones strewn around
by lads who never returned.
The stubbly Irish guy pours a McSorley,
watch the marigold glug into the mug
and froth over the top.
A gaggle of women natter at the back,
the flatscreen, out of place, chatting away too.
Feb 15, 2017
Feb 15, 2017 at 10:30 AM UTC
course and stubbly moustache whiskers brush against my forehead
sending uncontrollable shivers of discontent
through my narcotic addled body
beginning to rouse from my ****** induced slumber
I catch out of my periphery the chubby cheeks
and balding dome of the man who pays to **** my **** –
days to weeks to months…
18 long, despair filled terror
never a moments rest
or a minute of peaceful sleep
despite half a gram a day black tar
intravenously gifted to a bleak and melancholy
man-whore –
blue eyes following my every movement
ready to pounce like a rascally kitten
except this is not cute
and boarders on ****
as a sleeping / drug induced coma victim
is really unable to say yes –
the mirror holds no lie
and I see the truth each day as I wash my face
no amount of soap
can ever clean away the filth…
guilt and addiction
what a terrible combination for this poor ole chappy –
Aug 17, 2015
Aug 17, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
Bottles of alcohol squat on the counter, and cigarette butts
like yellow dead June bugs on the floor.
Bottles of shimmering reasons to not care about a hangover,
to leave prom early and rejoice in your parent’s absence.
Glistening necks, elegant glass nubs with no cap
tipped up into mouths screaming proud and hoarse,
We are STUPID! And CONTAGIOUS!
our ***** voices breaking under the radio sound
to a loud song whose generation no longer cares.
But we do, dumb boys and girls in a truck, rolling around town
like Haylee’s bottle of Jack Daniels in the trunk—
aimless, optimistic, and looking for reasons, so
buy a pack at the Chevron and let’s go smoke!
That’s enough, after all, isn’t it?
Reason enough to crack the windows, find a Carlyss backroad,
waste away midnight and half a tank of gas.
Still, as I drive on, a 90s rock station stimulating rotation of the spliff,
that smell puts my mind out of guitar solos and into placid hallways,
Smells Like a night in my dad’s apartment,
the stubbly couch with the nicotine blanket,
the Marlboro tone in the air, concrete crumbs and a lighter’s grating chrrt.
Divorce sounds like alcohol—
a word that burns, something sterilizing and for adults only.
But I don’t care, it’s my turn on the spliff,
and the backseat of my truck sounds more Alive
than the old horror movie rentals he would put on.
And why should I worry about what sobriety means
when we’ve been planning this night for months now?
All stocked up on Bacardi and Smirnoff Ice, Captain Morgan’s, Svedka, Mike’s Hard,
Swisher Sweets wrapped up in the **** bag—
We shoot our *** soldiers eager to start the war,
that war against a domestic unknown enemy,
an enemy dangerous and subversive, like sober-minded aspirations.
And while Zack rolls the blunt, while Jack finds his Camel pack,
while you ask for a hit of Haylee’s cigarette,
I fill a glass with water, my intention to hydrate
exactly as genuine as my intention to forget about it.
Feb 7, 2019
Feb 7, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
It will never really go away, and I am coming to accept that.
It will be there like the copper aftertaste of cheap chocolate that oils the roof of my mouth
Like the scoff of my shoes on the hotel carpets that’d annoy my father
The ticking of the clock ten minutes off during practice
The icy temperatures of the history classroom as I attempt to pay attention
Like the rattle of the acetaminophen tablets in my pill bottles
The sweaty nights accompanied by tears and fretting for the morning
The feeling in my stomach when a test is placed in front of me
Like the way he looks at me from down the hall with wandering eyes to match his heart
The way my compass sometimes catches on the surface of the paper and ruins the circle entirely
The moment of panic before I remember my locker combination
Like the cold feeling of going to sleep with wet hair and stubbly legs
The dry tightness of my skin after washing my hands
The cracking of my face under my nose due to rough tissues
Like the threatening surfaces of frozen water in the parking lot
The gagging taste of cough syrup as it spills down my throat
The embarrassment of not knowing the answer in class and sputtering out “uh”s and “um”s
But accepting that doesn’t rule out the good
There will be days filled with shocking ecstasy
Like the moment a snow day is announced
The grade boost after a well prepared for test
A good night’s sleep
Warm days
Cold nights
New sweatshirts waiting to have memories sewn into their fibers
Putting lotion on after shaving
Buying bed sheets
Drinking tea
Finding a new band
Going to concerts
Living
Breathing
Beating
Moving
Feeling
Loving
Maybe it's not so bad if I accept that my days won’t be perfect
After all
Balance is key in the face of diversity
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
**** up your ***
Bend over Red Rover
Send 6 inches over
Her threshold
All-season pass
Her ******** drips soy milk
Rub a dub dip
Her hygiene is poor
But the smell feeds your itch
It’s so **** gross
**** off
Die DIE
Uno dos DIE
Rapism
She liked it
Her tongue ring cut your ****
You didn’t even get hard
Her ***** were droopy
Reciprocate
Propagate
Gargle her cultures
And scream
DIE, DIE
Swallow the cottage cheese
Eat your green beans
**** off you stupid ****
Die
**** the babies
She has rabies
The cat licked the ***** and DIED
Curiosity killed that stupid *****
And she died
Just like she wanted
Shut up
Die
Eat breakfast
Die
Sleep
Die
Breathe
Die
Swindle her stubbly nest and
DIE
Shoot up orange juice
Put oil in your eyes
Shut up
**** off
And die
Apr 5, 2019
Apr 5, 2019 at 2:46 AM UTC