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g clair Mar 2014
Love is hairy, stubbly stuff
shave all week it's never enough
whether I shave it or slather on Nair
whack it or hack it will always be there.

Keeps coming back as much as you crop it
waxing and chemicals can’t even stop it
try to ignore it, the nubs comes in thick
even my eyebrows, a uni-brow chick.

Come Saturday I don’t really care
let it grow outta my underwear
Let it alone, that unruly mop
looks like I got me a nice bumper crop

This is my way, ain’t gonna change
my love and my hair are looking deranged
Sitting there pondering love and love's looks
flippin’ through Cosmo and metrosex books

Beauty is bare in my favorite rag
Nary a hairy or haggard old nag
Eyebrows are separate and carefully arched
Lips are injected and never seem parched.

Legs are **** smooth, and so are are the pits
Love is not given to hairy chick fits.
Speaking of nares, mine is exempt
The nose and the ears are extremely well kempt.

Sunday mornin’ rolls around
but his razor can’t be found....
I call out his name and wait for an answer
his ditty bag’s gone could It be that dancer?

The one that he watches the one he admires
could she be the one whose igniting his fires?
I’ve seen her there waiting the picture of grace
smooth, fair and agile not a hair out of place

I sit on the edge of the tub shocked and numb
look in the mirror then look at my thumb
I eye up the woman whose not spent a dime
on personal pleasures as though it’s a crime

My overgrown garden could not see the light
missed out on the sweetness, bare skin’s delight
Bought into myth and every girls hope
that she’d still be worth something without any soap.

Rummaged around in a drawer feeling sick
through my tears I lay hold of my old Lady Bic
Slipped into the shower convinced he despised me
lathered and cried, none of this has surprised me

He'd seemed a bit distant, preoccupied,
the more I persisted, the less satisfied
I should have considered my Love is not blind
his eyes are like sponges his vision will find

The best of the beauties the cream of the crop
as sweet sugar blossoms parade past his shop
I have an epiphany there in the suds
Time's never wasted on pruning the buds

Better to nip 'em if you're feelin manly
can't be mistaken for Charles or Stanley.
Lord knows the time I've put in at Curves
not that i see any good that it serves

So who really cares if he's after that minx
just between us we know how she stinks
Let him go sister try rising above
'cause if that's all he's after it ain't really love.

Making my plans to rip up his picture
wipe out his memory no longer a fixture
I can't say that I needed nor much that I cared
for the man or his ***** laundry I've aired

When into my steamy retreat disconcerted
the voice of the man I was sure had deserted.
I silence my heart and put down the Bic
ease back the curtain and see my St. Nick

The hairy faced heathen battered and worn
face kind of prickly needs to be shorn.
'What is THIS? 'he demands and holds out his hand
'Why, a worn out old mach 3, the triple edge brand! '

"I just CHANGED this blade and the thing's dull and rusted!"
"Heck if I know", but I know I’ve been busted.
Step out of the shower bare skin drippin' wet
'At this rate I think I’ll buy stock in Gillette.'

I hold out my Bic and smile at old Bones
"Would you like me to light your cigar, Mr. Jones?"
Leave him to his business, which won’t include the shave
Love is stubbly,love is soft and hairy to the grave.
Joe Cottonwood May 2016
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.
I had to delete this and two other poems from Hello Poetry while a journal published it. The journal, an anthology called Dove Tales, is out now, so here's the poem back where it first appeared.
mother died today or maybe yesterday i can’t be sure  the telegram from the home says your mother passed away funeral tomorrow deep sympathy which leaves the matter doubtful it could have been yesterday - “the Stranger” Albert Camus

a misguided partiality exists inside me i feel safer around women maybe i’m fooling myself and women are equally capable of the brutal cruelties i associate with men i don’t know i guess i believe women hold themselves to a higher behavioral standard gentler more nurturing there’s another aspect to my belief women floor me i am totally vulnerable to a pretty woman but it must be stated my tastes run quite peculiar i prefer alternative looks and am put off by classic American glamour i guess the real deal is i’m a guy most comfortable among men watching World Series Sunday Monday Night Football despite the fact that if i were with a woman would be my greatest craving who cares what i think i apologize for opening my mouth

we are stranded by the side of road from out of nowhere a beat up gray truck pulls along side in a cloud of dust we cannot see driver from passenger side stubbly shaven mustached man wearing red bandana under tattered western hat in accented hoarse voice hollers out how much for the girl with terrified expression in her face her hand reaches for my arm i peer coldly into man’s eyes then glance away answering

a. what exactly do you have in mind

b. how much cash do you got on you

c. she’s not for sale

d. we need a ride

e. we’re lost do you have a cell phone

f. please leave us alone

g. all of the above

an extraordinarily attractive member of opposite *** runs into you on street in familiar tone of voice greets you speaking your name it’s been ages you look terrific i was just thinking about you the other day it’s such a wonderful surprise to see you do you have time to stop chat over coffee or drink i live quite near here please come over to my place let’s catch up i’d really love that this person then looks at you in a flirtatious seductive way yet you cannot place or remember where you know them or if you’ve ever known them you answer

a. yes

b. this is embarrassing i’ve forgotten your name

c. how do you know my name where do we know each other from

d. is it possible you’re confusing me with someone else

e. i have no idea who you are or what you want from me

f. all of the above

these are dark times every one acknowledges post-modernism post-911 is bleak jobless homeless callous frightful kali yuga no one nothing nowhere  is safe wars gruesome atrocities piracy blood diamonds **** mutilation theft deceit betrayal school yard bullying assassinations cyber espionage anti-depression drugs vicious video games why aren’t people making positive video games referencing cooperation affection happiness instead of Grand Theft Auto Vice City Call of Duty World at War Mortal Kombat what kind of world are we creating for future generations why does violence sell more than *** why is *** so unkind what kind of people are we better off dead they shoot horses don’t they what happened what’s happening why are we making this hell why aren’t we making better wiser more loving choices i don’t understand

in the late 1960’s early 70’s parents didn’t have money to buy their kids high school graduation gifts or perhaps the notion was not invented yet nobody had cars maybe a few guys i knew owned cars they bought with their own hard earned money everybody i knew who lived off campus and too far to bicycle hitch-hiked to school then hitch-hiked home every day for 4 or more years that’s how we all did it in Hartford i remember sitting in different adult’s cars indebted grateful looking thinking wondering will i grow up to be like him or her projecting connections

when i grew up it was a different time turn on tune in drop out in a way hippies were reactionary to all the modern progress atomic age we winged it by inexact methods that time is gone it is crucial at present to be coherent sober accurate mindful wakeful vigilant wary prepared 24/7 this history being written how will it be told i’ve been around long enough to know how these deceptions work we are all using feeding ripping off each other we give in to whoever wants us become whoever seeks to destroy us we disgust ourselves i’m astonished dumbfounded talk with me who are we please explain i beg you

who if i cried who would hear me among the angels even if one of them pressed me against heart i would be consumed in overwhelming existence for beauty is nothing but beginning of terror we are still just able to bear we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us every angel is terrifying – “2nd Elegy” Rainer Maria Rilke
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
dan hinton Jun 2012
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.
Ackerrman Aug 2019
Red
Red. Blue. Green balloons skip from hand to air.
Their buoyance pulling taught on string without a care
For cutting of birthday cake or pink frosty icing melting
In the sun, party plates pass from Nanna to Papa.
The sleek magic man pulls another trick, waves his hands and ‘ta-da’.

The birthday boy sits unblinking,
Whilst those around make merry clinking,
Stupor with drinking.
Unmoved in his party of one.

Pink candy, fluffy pillows, sugar spun round like may pole in June
Sun, gliding through shrouds of baby blue glue on the day when somebody loved you,
The faded scent of burning popcorn scars memory.
Faint, old, warm voices rise in chorus of lukewarm water, embrace the scene
As children in play, chase white rabbits through hedges all summer day.

The birthday boy sits with guard folded,
and his mind is moulded,
his memory of play is shrouded,
thoughts making merry grounded,
unmoved in his party of one.

Sweet, suckling, pig aroma, dancing through the air and making merry
all the guests, with hustle and bustle, meeting and greeting with every
burst of laughter, rising and drowning in the air like Ariel,
Enchantress of Garden chairs, thin napkins caped in Tomato,
Children bounce around on castles, kings clinging to memories of tomorrow

The birthday boy sits far away,
Where his thoughts are free to flay,
All memory of that savage day,
Where innocence and virtue lay,
Unmoved in his party of one,

Ice cream Sundaes glitter as diamonds, yawning and smiling
As cream floats down the exquisite vase in timing
To lecherous looks promising requiem to appetite,
A chorus of laughter fills the air with, pop- another bottle,
Warm embrace of familiar friends, we smile soft as a bubble…

The birthday boy,
with stern and solemn stare,
Dares not cut the air,
Or insist on what is fair,
But sits to fester in the sun’s cold glare,
Looking like he does not care,
Unmoved in his party of one.

Sun flakes leaping over my neighbour’s
Stubbly white palace, beams trickle round its walls in party favours,
Death lightning blinding, level-climbing, stupor rising, smiling clowns,
Gracefully rummage through pockets for silver-shining keys,
Embraces kind faces with kinder eyes and another cherished memory leaves.

The birthday boy sat silent as the grave,
His parents want him to behave,
No boy like fancies left to save,
Stooped low in his plastic cave,
Ruing the knife that thought him brave.
Unmoved in his party of one.
One day a character from a book i am writing decided she wanted write a poem about her little brother.
Molly Pendleton Jul 2012
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
Jack Shannon Dec 2018
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.
A poem based on the long wait to being able to grow a beard.
William Barry Jun 2014
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.
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.
Riverwithin Apr 2016
stubbly chin
you within
hands explore
our naked skin

lips so soft
molten bliss
tingle touching
squeeze **** kiss
REAL Jun 2017
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
Laura Sep 2018
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
Natasha Apr 2015
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.
My tiny heart has swollen
RyanMJenkins Aug 2014
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
Again, my "troubles" proved insignificant when I was hinted to think about the whole.  Eye have the control.
Sack Williams Feb 2010
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.
Poetic T Jun 2016
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.
I made this up out the blue my daughter asked for a story, and this weaved its words from my mouth and now I give them too all of you.
Thank my little ladies love of stories for this piece :)
Terry Collett Mar 2013
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.
2009 POEM.
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
B J Clement Jun 2014
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!
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.
Written: February 2017.
Explanation: A sonnet of sorts written in my own time for university, inspired by an image of McSorley's Old Ale House in New York City. PLEASE NOTE that changes are very likely to this piece in the coming months. All feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP at some point in the future.
Sam Temple Aug 2015
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-***** –
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 –
Joanna Oz Feb 2016
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.
Cody Cooke Feb 2019
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.
Sam Temple May 2016
stubbly cheek and chin run along
a smooth creamy leg
the faint sent of pre-*** wafts
as a slight moan escapes her lips
the back of a rugged hand brushes away
fallen hairs
laying haphazard across a face
engrossed in ecstasy
gently rubbing the nub behind decorated *******
drawing forth inadvertent twists
and a few giggles and excited noises
teeth grip and tug at elastic
exposing a trimmed and curly
treasure trove
I dive with abandon
enjoying a meal
saved just for me –
alexandra Oct 2016
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
Me in jeans plus four others,
the nearest a guitarist,
black bag shape slung
over a seat, his sleeve
rolled high enough
to see a clamour of ink
in his skin, a ladder of colours.
He listens to music, white worms
lodged into ears.
Another, female, older,
glasses two-thirds down the nose,
much wrinkled Times between
her wrinkled fingers, glint of a ring,
the only one it seems, fatigue
rolling over her face.
The third, sweating, texting,
doesn’t look up, unaware to
anyone but the swirl of letters
on the screen beneath his eyes
where only he knows what exists.
The final guest is asleep,
or is pretending, head drooped
to a shoulder like a dog’s.
The train rattles on,
Monday night,
metal vessel of mysteries.
The musician glances up,
notices he is among a clutch
of others, sees me
and for maybe five, six seconds
does not look away,
his muddy-coloured irises
pouring into mine,
his boots scuffed with muck.
I cannot help but acknowledge
this unexpected attention,
but, flustered, I rustle for a book,
even though my exodus
is minutes away.
I flip to page sixty-two, he looks away,
and then back, swivelling, as if unsure
which way to stick, and there is
a fleeting stab of fear,
of what if in a shred of a second
he lunges across, a tattooed panther,
pins my wrists to the cold window,
spews his breath to my face
and grunts in that appallingly masculine way,
a way that suggests he’s in control,
ha ha *****, what you gonna do now?
when he wouldn’t be, I’d know.
I’d have a clear shot at the crotch
and even if the texter, sleeper, reader
didn’t spring to life, I could put a stop
to it, shove him from me like
yanking a piece of furniture across the room,
crank my voice into a bellow.
I can imagine the stupid mask
of shock on his stubbly face.
He could hurt me, of course he could,
anyone can hurt anyone
how they please, and I’m just as capable,
but I wouldn’t, shouldn’t
launch an attack of fists and kicks,
inject my words with venom.
This thought shrieks in my brain
and dies, squashed bug-like,
its pulse destroyed.
Always assuming the worst.
I’ll learn.
I don’t look at him again.
I don’t know if he looks at me
but he probably does,
thinking of a song he’ll write
or leftovers to eat,
or a missed opportunity.
The book slips to the floor,
for a moment, I forget,
I am being transported.
Everybody leaves, I am no exception,
standing, moving to the doors
that will open with a quiet whirr,
it slows and then a bit more,
bit more,
his memory of me
my ***, perfect in these jeans.
Typical. At least, I think,
it looks good.
Written: October 2017.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome. Marcy Avenue refers to the station on the New York Subway in Brooklyn. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP at some point in the future.
Damon Beckemeyer Apr 2019
**** 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
*******
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
******* 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
*******
And die
William D Hearns Oct 2018
with your sharp nails gouging my chest, and
your bright eyes somehow dark you
my
crazy girl
black hair pearlescent in the moonlight god
iloveit
that unbreakable frenzy in your eyes,
drives me crazy
unbound, wanton, a lithe little slip of a thing,
trace my tattoos with that sharp nail again
rest your cheek against my stubbly cheek
wind your fingers  through my hair,
ill do the same for you babe
I'll light your cigarette after,
and listen to you purr my name,
like cheap searing liquor out of a
crystal decanter
youre so decadently  bleak
baby girl
lets be young forever
Candlewood Aug 2019
I look to you a smile.
Why is that?

I don’t even know your last name.

But I turn to you
in the middle of our
geometry lesson and that
stubbly face and gap between your teeth,
I always smile.

— The End —