#denim
a thin brush
painting small circles
on denim
steady hand
steady
stop shaking
finished
Jan 28, 2021
Jan 28, 2021 at 9:34 PM UTC
The air always smelled like cigarettes
And burnt denim,
Ripped and frayed
sitting on sharp hips
Tipped with attitude.
Our palms, always the color of dirt
Pressed against green glass
As we tipped,
laughed throatily at
The burn in our chests.
Our smiles always shined
Glossed lips turned up
With naive knowing
Sure shoulder shrugs
To hide the blush
Of falling behind.
Our voices were always loud
Looong syllables
Sang with solemn vows
Of seeing all our promises
Through to the end
Never bending
Against the break of the world.
Our sight was always far
Squinting at the sun-soaked unseen
Flicking cigarette butts
With perfect aim,
Watching the red smoulder
Flippant with the thought
That we would be the same,
never going out.
Aug 18, 2020
Aug 18, 2020 at 4:40 AM UTC
John Winston Ono Lennon
From Britain to Brooklyn, decked in denim
Controversial through his political and peace activism
Felled by Mark David Chapman's act of barbarism
Oct 25, 2019
Oct 25, 2019 at 2:50 PM UTC
Wishy Washy.
Tumbling,
Between high and low,
Hot and cold.
Am I delicate like the load of whites? do I need to refresh my color with a strong drink- bleach?
Or am I tough and resistant like denim? toss me in for an hour, shove soap down my throat, and I'll come out like new?
Maybe I'm a mixed load, balancing between the two; teeter-tottering from feeling to feeling.
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 9:02 PM UTC
i hope we last like Japanese denim
selvedge threads and salvaged hearts
the wear will only make us more beautiful
and show that lasting forever is not only for old things
we'll only wear patches for sentiment
and watch the seams tear apart
how grand it will to be a couple of old things
oh, it will be grand
with our gray hair telling stories better than our words ever could
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 9:26 AM UTC
I want a denim vest,
ripped at the sleeves,
grim patches and buttons.
So I searched through the thrift shops.
Everything was too large, or too tight,
or cut in a style thatt was not quite right.
In the isles were old ladies
who probably bought the clothes
donated by dead friends.
In a corner, marked off for books,
stood Ginsberg, bespectacled and urging,
"You are not a locomotive!"
But I chugged on by,
all steam and whistles,
neck a bristle with eerie misease
that Ginsberg is dead,
like the old ladies' friends,
and I can only find denim
with sleeves.
Oct 11, 2017
Oct 11, 2017 at 1:56 AM UTC
Shes more than just a pretty face. Shes a hurricane. Demin and lace spun around like wind and rain. A princess that has long since lost her crown- its probably at the bottom of the pacific by now; stitched together with good intentions, lightning, and leather. Held to the ground by a chest harness, gagged with cotton, and her heart made to beat to the rhythm of thunder. Voice like the pounding of the sea against bluffs; breaking down barricades with one subtle stroke. Uprooting trees like she does her long blonde curls and nothing can calm her chaos-not cuffs or rope, not diamonds or pearls. Shes just a little harder to handle then most. Oceans plunder through the floodgates of her eyes at any given moment; parading through the coast, tumbling around with all the broken and bruised cement.
Shes all the abandoned throwns left to drown or freeze without power, warmth or shelter. The promise to do better and be better next time coaxing her further into the fray by her collar and leash but its always the same unpredicted weather. Shes both beauty and the beast- complete opposites chained together by her ankles and wrists. Poetry pouring from her luscious lips in a heavy mist; a coldfront may stall her out but shes still quick to spit with the flick of a whip. Shes deeper than she appears but her foundations crumble under the rubble of her own ivory skin. Broken coral stumbling through the empty halls of her soul-it takes it tole. Shes the act of god, something so vivid and yet so insane could only be brought on by the abundance of sin. A divine cause lost in plush-sweet and also ****** a unity of odd mixtures: vinegar and sugar. Cloudcover hiding the blisfulness of the sun and she cant help but blush. Shes altogether too much and all she leaves behind is death and decay-she destroys everything in her path But its not her fault; she got broken too while sitting in the lap of a tormado; wrapped her up, held her tight, then let her go.Any attempt to get back inside only left her trapped in scar tissue, She went crazy when he called her baby so its no wonder nothing survived. She may leave you with a mild breeze and a sky of orange and pink.She'll send seashells spiraling into you until you become debris..make you wonder what its like to live without the kink.
Jul 28, 2017
Jul 28, 2017 at 4:30 PM UTC
Mind like a night sky
Far-off stars dying, make me want to die too
Forever gazing at the day sky
Sky blue like the denim above my shoe
The sky looks stained through my window
As I stare, self-contained in thy limbo
May 18, 2017
May 18, 2017 at 8:27 PM UTC
actually i lied to you, that one time in my car when we were having a happy morning on our way to go swimming after we got coffee, you asked me if i listened to classical music and i told you i didn't-
and quite frankly i'm listening to classical music this very moment trying to think of a poetic way to phrase "i wish you were in my bed making out with me right now. that you were here sliding your fingers between mine as we were talking about anything, maybe just talking **** because you like that i'm nice but that i'm not actually a nice girl."
it *was cute that you were so particular about dental hygiene each morning, even the time you made my gums bleed a little. ( i say *was because who the hell knows if we'll look at each other like that again now that times past ) maybe it's not something i'll lose sleep over while you're down south but i'm absolutely curious what part of your memory you file my name under. i wonder if you think you've got me all figured out or if i'm a puzzle of the ocean on a blue day with 10,000 pieces to you.
- sorry i called you weak that first time you slept over, kind of
Jun 21, 2016
Jun 21, 2016 at 12:58 AM UTC
The tears that stream down my face begin to match the color of my jacket. Hard, rough, and warm. Just like you. You don't bother to turn away from the crime you have committed. You watch me suffer, no emotion present on your still face. Our love has burned up like a cigarette. Don't dare try and tell me I was the one who lit the fire. You are the one to be held responsible. For you have burned up my heart and set it in an ashtray.
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 5:21 PM UTC
Hair the colour of an Americano,
Petite denim shorts, blue.
The scent of a perfume distinguishable, to you.
Those skin-coloured tights – pleading to be torn.
You’re everything I desire.
Yet you’re everything I resent.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 6:15 PM UTC
to write a poem without haste
to sew your name into my pillowcase
foolish girls should walk home alone
sleeping in beds too clean to call their own
i’d swoon and dance on the curb where you wait
your head between my wrists, i’ve loved you for days
neon signs paint us purple as we make ****** bets
your words too shallow to pay off your debts
denim waistlines straddling a sad boy in the day
black lace on the floor arranged for the love we made
fall asleep in the passengers seat until noon
never eager to leave me, always leaving too soon
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
The minutia of cotton fledglings, I play them over and over
In my head, the most enjoyable, a layer of dynasty added to
The mallard kingdom. And a rocking horse swims across
Each pond too, its head heaves and nags creating massive, huge,
Undulating circles around circles. One more coat of gesso and then
Even I, in my speckled red paint Commune jeans, and holy holy Protestant tee shirt, I can travel the world; maybe even brush up on my
Cuyp.
Whipping through the sedge-brook grass, busting out, shooting Through the other mucilaginous nimbuses rolling
Outward first, then fled upward into the beacons of the heavens-
Shouting, whistling, oozing albicant heraldic pillars and shields.
Twenty more colours to mix.
Together, the mallards and ewes and rocking horse, and I;
prancing, little dots, filing into order. Where nursing
Against the sunken pillows of grain, I enter each round of
This papyrus jungle. Neatly folding my hands around each
Milky white shade, rushing out into the aurulent sunglow. .
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 6:40 AM UTC