"ballgown" poems
*"mary mary quite contrary
how does your garden grow
with silver bells and cockle shells
and pretty maids all in a row”*
homecoming queen
ballgown made of polythene
they always said in trash bags
you could still look haute couture
leave em wanting more
now, the only thing i’m sure of
is laura, laura, laura in the ground
nothing but her aura and a lily spattered mound
remains, it pains me to concede
that she’ll be eaten up by ghost ****
by the time she turns 18
she’ll still be homecoming queen
below my lungs and all the earth
she will be crowned
laura in the ground
angel dusted lips of blue
and eyes of lapis lazuli
all the water in the river
couldnt fill the chasm
this microcosmic monster ****** bone dry
cause the only thing i’m sure of
is laura, laura, laura in the ground
nothing but her aura and a lily spattered mound
remains, it pains me to concede
that she’ll be eaten up by ghost ****
by the time she turns 18
she’ll still be homecoming queen
below my lungs and all the earth
she will be crowned
laura in the ground
even her jewellery is broken hearted
all cut up like lines of cheap *******
it feels like all the world is utterly uncharted
with you gone i am lost in fog
you’re planted in my brain
oh, laura, laura, laura in the ground
nothing but her aura and a lily spattered mound
remains, it pains me to concede
that she’ll be eaten up by ghost ****
by the time she turns 18
she’ll still be homecoming queen
below my lungs and all the earth
she will be crowned
laura in the ground
oh laura, laura, laura palmer
golden girl, enchanted charmer
you will still be crowned
laura, lovely laura palmer
you’ve got a date with the embalmer
and afterwards there’s coffee in the ground
i promise, doll, i swear
you’ve nothing, no one left to fear
you’re all walled in and safe, my dear
my darling laura, laura in the ground
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 10:11 PM UTC
Rose petals
Sharp knive
Sparkling ballgown
Dazzled yet heavy crown
White gloves
Damage heels
Unbearable armor
Complicated manner
Tricky mutuals
you know? being a Princess isn't that easy
Nov 9, 2020
Nov 9, 2020 at 7:41 AM UTC
On the streets are many sounds and sights.
Like,
dragons jumping traffic lights and busses buzzing through the long and lonely nights.
In the stable where I stay
some say that,'I'm unstable' well they would wouldn't they?
I lay me down but get no peace
the sirens from the local police begin to blare
How they love to share that noise.
A different place another poise
escaping from that awful sound
I start to burrow underground.
Lie down in a box and smoke cheroots
while watching daisies lacing up their 'daisy roots'
I'm waiting but there is no evidence of anything vibrating
it's very still and dead
even spiders stop the spinning of their webs in wonder
then the thunder of the day above
hand in glove
with the cacophony of that lunacy
I often see
spread all about me
finds me out
and digs me up.
I take that cup of old Laings building site
where once the labourers might have dream't
of men unkempt in ***** rags
begging for some food and ****
and a bit of work to pay their way.
Not today
or any other day
I heard them say it
watched them spray it on the walls
and as the failing hope falls down
the ballgown that she wore
is worn again as second hand
by salvationists from the army band
who try to fill the dragging days
with songs of glory
hymns of praise.
What's the use
we suffer more than shock, abuse
and yet we stay
where we as dinosaurs
no longer play but plod.
Life's a sod laid on the Earth
we animate and give it birth
and then it bites us
on the ****
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 8:34 AM UTC
you are a lot and a little
a bucket and a teaspoon
too much and not enough
you are old pajama pants and a silk ballgown
a pencil and a pen
you tie me up while loosening my knots
staged a coup and while I kept power
you are a bear and a butterfly
you are the static on the radio and the sound of a doorbell
you are a poem and a punchline
a paragraph and a word
a novel and a syllable that hold the same amount of meaning
you are stale crackers midnight and breakfast served all day
you are the laughter on the other side of a wall
but you are a lot and a little
a bucket and a teaspoon
too much and not enough
you are a bear and a butterfly
Jun 4, 2012
Jun 4, 2012 at 5:57 PM UTC
what is the definition of us?
you beat the crap out of me
and I come crawling back
they just don’t know you like I do
they just don’t see love like I do
nobody understands
and I’ve always lived to spite
so I keep on keeping on with our swan song
and yeah I could go without you
if I really wanted to
but I was raised to not quit
plus - every time I see you again
you look better than last time
I mean holy **** is that lingerie or a ballgown?
and we never get out of bed
which I like
but I never get out of bed
which I hate
You tell me
never change
so I walk around town in sweatpants
and four day stubble
hair always greasy and wild
and the beautiful people I make eye contact with
look at me like a raving homeless lunatic
which wouldn’t **** me off so much -
if they weren’t so close to the truth
but you are a full time job
and I’m getting overtime
dot my eyes again
we both know I deserve it
we both know we deserve each other
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
A f a s h i o n i s t a –
it’s not who I am
or I was, at least.
Am not the girly-girl
fond of hearts and flowers,
nor of a stiletto and
of a dress.
On groceries, (I wore)
an old pair of tees and shorts.
On malls,
a plain shirt and maong jeans.
On every day,
a pair of flat footwear.
Just those. Period.
Just until –
A pair of Chinito eyes,
on my direction, came across.
I was enchanted. Captivated.
And I was driven insane.
**I. Want. Those. To. Keep.
Looking. At. Me.**
So I began –
A dress, I wore.
Hearts and flowers, I was
covered with.
Stilettos, ah! They hurts!
but I slipped them on,
anyway.
A dress–
That white heavy laced
ballgown, in my dreams
I began to behold.
As I walk down the aisle
gracefully and proudly, towards
that pair of Chinito eyes.
That dress (The Dress)
that I never got to wear,
in my reality.
Because those two Chinito eyes,
to another direction,
T h e y. S h i f t e d.
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 7:54 PM UTC
She bleeds,
the universe,
and cries,
shooting stars.
Like a princess,
out of her ballgown,
so out of,
place,
she lets freedom,
embrace.
With glitter,
in her hair,
she sparkles,
even at,
night.
I find myself,
finding pieces,
she left,
behind.
She ran,
so far,
she didn’t,
even think,
twice.
The palace just,
was never her,
place.
Nov 4, 2022
Nov 4, 2022 at 9:50 PM UTC
*For being being high and
way too cool,
we're sentencing you to
an eternity in hell.*
Down here, they got nothing to sell,
and even if they did, sell it they would not.
I was banished, sent down here to rot,
got a dude shooting up,
staring at me with a lot of snot
dripping from his nose,
nobody is telling him where his little sister goes,
cause if they did, shoot it they would not,
he's the guy with the dope
and dope talks
(and nobody walks).
He gets what he wants when he wants it
and if you were to tell him his little sister
****** your **** for junk you bought from him,
brother I'm afraid you'd never smell roses again.
Not that you would,
there's a terrible lack of pretty things
just poetry, and rap songs to sing.
Knock on wood, cause you got what I don't,
smoke it while you can,
cause I will if you don't.
Oh ****
I'm bad at rhyming,
please step outside while I prepare a hit
of something strong.
Boy its been too long
since I stuck that needle in my arm.
A ****** in need
is a ****** indeed,
and oh ****
that's just plagiarism,
you'll let it slide, this ain't ******* journalism,
just keep your mouth shut and believe in my cynicism.
Watch out though, don't get overwhelmed by your egotism,
oh **** that ain't fair
rhyming ism with ism
but boy, life ain't fair.
My father told me what I had to do,
you gotta think long and hard
about why the sky is blue.
Broken bottles produce glass shards,
all out of junk, better sniff some glue.
When I first started using nobody said it would be this hard,
hell nobody said anything at all. except for you.
Now I'm just desperate searching my vocabulary,
accidentally stuck the needle right through my capillary,
I want blood and money: My Life As A Teenage Mercenary.
Don't worry, they got the good **** down at the apothecary,
make you so high you can fly like a fairy.
I must be bored, nothing I'm saying makes any sense,
no please don't show my sister, she might call me dense,
she'll remove the shrouds, destroy all the pretense.
Robbing my moms purse, scrounging up a few cents.
Hell if I had any sense I'd stop writing now,
call God and return him his crown,
but he's uptown and I'm downtown,
a sad clown
a dad frown
a mad ballgown.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 6:06 PM UTC
In the fairy tale, Aimee was bad at heart,
a pretty shell that promised a pearl and
when cracked open, gave grains of sand
instead. It scratched the surface of the eyes
and misled; Aimee was just one of those pretty
Jezebels, cruel within, decorated without.
Her sister Aurore was the heroine,
a fatalist, who sighed her philosophy:
'What will be will be' and her patience and
good heart tugged her towards the coincidences
that always favour the light.
But Aimee was driven away by her own wickedness,
and had not the luck of the good.
All Aimee had was the face.
These are the kind of stories I am tired of because
I want to tell you that when Aimee was just a
small girl, she sat and watched her mother scrutinise
her appearance in the mirror. She watched as she
painted her face and knew then that she was just a painted
beauty, a kind that easily peels off. How little it
mattered though, as her mother smiled at her jewels.
Painted or true, her mother had succeeded through
beauty. So Aimee saw no good in the kind and the patient,
who suffered and accepted their suffering. She chose an
ambition called wickedness and she wore it like a petticoat
beneath the blue ballgown. Aimee was the kind of girl
to get what she wanted. Her mother had taught her
that her face was the only kind of fatalism she could follow.
I am tired of these fairy tales that give undefined shapes.
I'm tired of the dichotomy between the good and the bad.
I'm bored of the light always finding their happily ever after.
Just tell me the story of the dark and tell it properly.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 1:32 AM UTC
It's interesting
I used to walk these shimmering, ornate halls
Covered in copper and lapis lazuli
and rubies
I used to wear a ballgown and waltz
I used to gaze down from the balcony with a gleam in my eye
As the world looked up at me, at all of us
It's interesting
How things change with perspective
Now I'm seeing things quite differently
These ruby-coated walls have turned to bloodstain
They hold me in the skin of a second-rate queen
Someone I never wanted to be
The castle is falling
The castle was never tall
The castle only seemed to shimmer because it was made of glass
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 12:28 AM UTC
They said she wore:
A ballgown of sadness
With a beautifully sad bow on her waist
And dark blue melancholic gloves
Her skin sparkled with wretchedness
And on her ears glittered joyless earrings
She wore her sadness well
But it didn't matter
Because no matter how stunningly they thought she wore her sorrow
She knew the truth:
Pain is never beautiful
So she stepped into a fire
So everyone could see:
"Depression's never pretty
And now it has killed me
Don't put flowers on my grave, please
I want everyone to know I died in hideous sadness"
me.gs
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 9:06 PM UTC
Potter’s clay, nymph, plum unplumbed, 1993.
Dahlia, ice, powder, musk and rose.
My source of life emerged in darkness, blackness.
Seashell fragments in the sand that makes glass,
The glass ball of my life,
Cracked inside,
Light reflected off the salt crystal cracks,
Nacre kept those cracks from getting worse.
Young ****** Autosodomized By Her Own Chastity,
Nymph, I didn’t want to give my body,
Torn, ***** ballgown,
To people who wouldn’t understand me,
Piquant.
Outside on the salt flats,
Aphrodite, goddess of beauty, pleasure and fertility and
Asexual Artemis, goddess of animals, and the hunt,
Mistress of nymphs,
Punish with ruthless savagery.
In my bedroom, blue caribou moss covered rocks, pine, and yew trees,
The heartwood writhes as hurricane gales, twisters and whirlwinds
Contort their bark,
Roots strong in the soil.
Orris root dried in the sun, bulbs like wood.
Dahlia runs to baritone soundbath radio waves.
Light has frequencies,
Violet between blue and invisible ultraviolet,
Flame, slate and flint.
Every night is cold.
Torii gates, pain secured as sacred.
An assignation, frost hardy dahlia and a plangent resonant echo.
High frequency sound waves convert to electrical signals,
Breathe from someone I want,
Silt.
Beam, radiate, ensorcel.
I break the bark,
Sap flows and dries,
Resin seals over the tear.
I distill pine,
Resin and oil for turpentine, a solvent.
Quiver, bemired,
I lead sound into my darkness,
Orris butter resin, sweet and warm,
Hot jam drops on snow drops,
Orange ash on smoke,
Balm on lava,
The problem with cotton candy.
Electrical signals give off radiation or light waves,
The narrow frequency range where
The crest of a radio wave and the crest of a light wave overlap,
Infrared.
Glaciers flow, sunlight melts the upper layers of the snow when strong,
A wet snow avalanche,
A torrent, healing.
Brown sugar and whiskey,
Undulant, lavender.
Pine pitch, crystalline, sticky, rich and golden,
And dried pine rosin polishes glass smooth
Like the smell of powdery orris after years.
Softness, flush, worthy/not worthy,
Rich rays thunder,
Intensify my pulse,
Frenzied red,
Violet between blue and invisible ultraviolet.
Babylon—flutter, glow.
Unquenchable cathartic orris.
Jul 5, 2021
Jul 5, 2021 at 5:04 PM UTC
I want to dance with you
to the cricketsongs
of a warm August night
with sweet summer scents in the air,
on a grassy dance floor
beneath the soft ceiling lights
of stars and moon.
Come lie on the earthblanket,
rest with me
before the last waltz
while our eyes dance.
Then let me hold you
in the nakedness
of your ballgown,
and love you
as we twirl to
nightsounds.
dennis
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 6:34 PM UTC
I've been waiting for you to rescue me,
My tears keep coming,
No one there to catch them.
I thought you were here,
But you must have left an hour ago.
A day ago?
A week ago?
My knees are weak,
My sweating hands pulling
Hard on my ballgown,
I step hastily away
As my heartbreak claims
Another year away.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 1:56 PM UTC
you walked up to me
and we greeted each other with the stupid “classic white people” half smile
like we always do
and you said hey
and that we have our leadership thing this wednesday.
we talked about your eye surgery
and how i didn’t have time to eat dinner that night;
nonchalant little small-talk
that i normally would hate,
but with you it felt like the most intellectual conversation of my life.
standing there
you in that tux
and me in my ballgown
it felt normal,
like this was something we did everyday.
reality hit hard when you said goodbye
to go find the girl you came with.
Jan 6, 2019
Jan 6, 2019 at 10:44 PM UTC