deepundergroundpoetry.com
Dear Hunter S. Thompson: Suck one.
The smug bastard who
said, "You can't miss what
you never had" can suck
a hairy dick.
Because I never
had a morning
in which I rolled over
and scooted closer to you,
still wearing your red t-shirt
and the scraps of the
cute panties you ripped off
with your teeth the night before.
When I pretended to still be asleep,
under sheets that smelled like
daytime, and sex, and dryer sheets,
I didn’t get to sassily rub
my ass against your morning wood.
With the windows open,
and the sunlight streaming in,
you never locked your
arms around my stomach,
pulled me closer,
making me squeal and squirm,
as you attacked that tender part of my neck
with teeth and overnight scruff.
I never woke up staring into
your blue eyes, my face
half under the covers,
shyly delirious on you while
hiding from morning breath
and sweet, sweet regret.
And you never
made me pay for being
a wretched tease,
as a warm wind made
the curtains flutter,
as if the day itself
was charmed by our capers.
Fuck me, if I don’t
feel hunted by the acute
ache from missing
just...
that...
thing.
You, Mr. Thompson,
shouldn’t wax rhetoric
with your mouth full.
Author's note: Unfortunately, Thompson is credited with this quote http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/show/244661
He is dead, and you can't libel the dead, but that doesn't mean I don't feel a pang for maligning the father of Gonzo journalism for the sake of poetry. Go read about him here: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5237.Hunter_S_Thompson
Or here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hunter_S_Thompson
To be clear: Hunter S. Thompson is a badass, and does not suck root. ~B
said, "You can't miss what
you never had" can suck
a hairy dick.
Because I never
had a morning
in which I rolled over
and scooted closer to you,
still wearing your red t-shirt
and the scraps of the
cute panties you ripped off
with your teeth the night before.
When I pretended to still be asleep,
under sheets that smelled like
daytime, and sex, and dryer sheets,
I didn’t get to sassily rub
my ass against your morning wood.
With the windows open,
and the sunlight streaming in,
you never locked your
arms around my stomach,
pulled me closer,
making me squeal and squirm,
as you attacked that tender part of my neck
with teeth and overnight scruff.
I never woke up staring into
your blue eyes, my face
half under the covers,
shyly delirious on you while
hiding from morning breath
and sweet, sweet regret.
And you never
made me pay for being
a wretched tease,
as a warm wind made
the curtains flutter,
as if the day itself
was charmed by our capers.
Fuck me, if I don’t
feel hunted by the acute
ache from missing
just...
that...
thing.
You, Mr. Thompson,
shouldn’t wax rhetoric
with your mouth full.
Author's note: Unfortunately, Thompson is credited with this quote http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/show/244661
He is dead, and you can't libel the dead, but that doesn't mean I don't feel a pang for maligning the father of Gonzo journalism for the sake of poetry. Go read about him here: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5237.Hunter_S_Thompson
Or here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hunter_S_Thompson
To be clear: Hunter S. Thompson is a badass, and does not suck root. ~B
Published 29th May 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 8
reading list entries 3
comments 6
reads 1283
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
Anonymous
- Edited 29th May 2012 9:53pm
29th May 2012 9:22pm
The smug bastard who
said, "You can't miss what
you never had" can suck
a hairy dick.
Henri Cole (No, I'd never heard of him either - but he did know stuff. American laureate or some such.) once said
to always try and 'drop into the poem from 10,000 ft - like, jump in without a parachute - bam! Get the reader's interest. Okay. I'm interested.)
Because I never
had a morning
in which I rolled over
and scooted closer to you,
still wearing your red t-shirt
and the scraps of the
cute panties you ripped off
with your teeth the night before. Fucking hot ! Dripping with not only sex but a real sense of loss/regret. Loved it.
When I pretended to still be asleep,
under sheets that smelled like
daytime, and sex, and dryer sheets,
I didn’t get to sassily rub
my ass against your morning wood.
With the windows open,
and the sunlight streaming in,
You took a piece out here, didn't you? Something about the very daylight conspiring?Why? It was beautiful. I know you might have thought it was flowery. But it wasn't. It was aces. Bring it back, I say!'
you never locked your
arms around my stomach,
pulled me closer,
making me squeal and squirm,
as you attacked that tender part of my neck
with teeth and overnight scruff.
(These images are so earthy, real, immediate. You invoke the (too often overlooked) sense of smell brilliantly and the sense of touch, of real human contact so ... immediately, sensuously ... but without affectation or floweriness. It's direct and real. This is you at your best (in my not very humble opinion.) Cheering from the rowdy in the cheap seats.
)
I never woke up staring into
your blue eyes, my face
half under the covers,
shyly delirious on you while
hiding from morning breath
and sweet, sweet regret.
And you never
made me pay for being
a wretched tease,
as a warm wind made
the curtains flutter,
as if the day itself
was charmed by our capers.
Fuck me, if I don’t
feel hunted by the acute
ache from missing
just...
that...
thing.
You, Mr. Thompson,
shouldn’t wax rhetoric(al)
with your mouth full.
]She shoots. She scores. The crowd goes wild. Bravo ! ! !
said, "You can't miss what
you never had" can suck
a hairy dick.
Henri Cole (No, I'd never heard of him either - but he did know stuff. American laureate or some such.) once said
to always try and 'drop into the poem from 10,000 ft - like, jump in without a parachute - bam! Get the reader's interest. Okay. I'm interested.)
Because I never
had a morning
in which I rolled over
and scooted closer to you,
still wearing your red t-shirt
and the scraps of the
cute panties you ripped off
with your teeth the night before. Fucking hot ! Dripping with not only sex but a real sense of loss/regret. Loved it.
When I pretended to still be asleep,
under sheets that smelled like
daytime, and sex, and dryer sheets,
I didn’t get to sassily rub
my ass against your morning wood.
With the windows open,
and the sunlight streaming in,
You took a piece out here, didn't you? Something about the very daylight conspiring?Why? It was beautiful. I know you might have thought it was flowery. But it wasn't. It was aces. Bring it back, I say!'
you never locked your
arms around my stomach,
pulled me closer,
making me squeal and squirm,
as you attacked that tender part of my neck
with teeth and overnight scruff.
(These images are so earthy, real, immediate. You invoke the (too often overlooked) sense of smell brilliantly and the sense of touch, of real human contact so ... immediately, sensuously ... but without affectation or floweriness. It's direct and real. This is you at your best (in my not very humble opinion.) Cheering from the rowdy in the cheap seats.
)
I never woke up staring into
your blue eyes, my face
half under the covers,
shyly delirious on you while
hiding from morning breath
and sweet, sweet regret.
And you never
made me pay for being
a wretched tease,
as a warm wind made
the curtains flutter,
as if the day itself
was charmed by our capers.
Fuck me, if I don’t
feel hunted by the acute
ache from missing
just...
that...
thing.
You, Mr. Thompson,
shouldn’t wax rhetoric(al)
with your mouth full.
]She shoots. She scores. The crowd goes wild. Bravo ! ! !
30th May 2012 2:08am
31st May 2012 7:04pm
Betty
I have read Hunter. Two of his books.
But that does not give me anything to
come and say anything here.
This left me gasping and open mouthed
and at my age to undergo such a whirlwind
of emotions could only mean greatness.
This touches that. This is rabid, sad,
uncompromising. Never stops, never waits.
It is like a Tarantino screenplay.
This was a superlative sensory delight.
I only sense the breakfast is amiss. Love
the personal touch. This is more of an
erotic poem for me.
A real fine write we have here. You are
slowly bettering your true form.
Write on, Valkyrie
Sumeet
I have read Hunter. Two of his books.
But that does not give me anything to
come and say anything here.
This left me gasping and open mouthed
and at my age to undergo such a whirlwind
of emotions could only mean greatness.
This touches that. This is rabid, sad,
uncompromising. Never stops, never waits.
It is like a Tarantino screenplay.
This was a superlative sensory delight.
I only sense the breakfast is amiss. Love
the personal touch. This is more of an
erotic poem for me.
A real fine write we have here. You are
slowly bettering your true form.
Write on, Valkyrie
Sumeet
1st Jun 2012 11:36pm
Nice poem, very complicated (really) and clever. But why would there be regret? I can identify with much in the poem but I don't regret it, like you seem to suggest he would. I like your poetry. They say something with force and integrity.
8th Mar 2023 1:06pm
8th Mar 2023 1:19pm
Fuck, we all drank bad bourbon because of that fucker. I miss writing like that.
