"brassiere" poems
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hills
The kinfolk were drinkin' as they tend to their stills
The longjohns were hung by the chimney with care
No stockings were found, just underwear
The children were nestled so high in their bunks
Their quilts made of skins from rabbits and skunks
Granny with her false teeth and gun on her knee
Was waiting for Santa as she sat by the tree
From out of the barn there arose such a noise
We thought it was Grandpa drinkin' with the boys
But what to my wandering eye should appear
It was just cousin Cleatus in mama's brassiere
And then from the rooftop we heard it at last
Like the sound of thunder or a shot gun blast
We have Christmas dinner, it's finally here
Granny kidnapped Santa while we shot his deer
Venison all covered with onions for stew
And even old Santa enjoyed some too
His belly was full when he walked out the door
But he couldn't resist when we offered him more
Well that's the story of our Christmas here
Merry Christmas to all 'til the same time next year
© All Rights Reserved
Dec 8, 2010
Dec 8, 2010 at 7:17 AM UTC
You want a make out
Without a ring on it
You call it attractive
I call it infactuation
They call it seductive spirit
They just want the pudding
Bunch of irresponsibles
This kind goeth not away
But by fasting and prayer
A generation of sadomasochists
Bunch of nymphonaniacs
Do I look like a loose ball?
Even if I wanted to play
"Shoe get size, 'mbok'"
Open your legs at your peril
When it's time to settle down
Men look beyond beauty
Character and intelligence tops the list
Even love is not enough
When he is ready to "ring it"
Don't say I didn't tell
When you advertise your wares
Frontally and from behind
You attract what you represent
Men don't like exposed wares
If you cover it very well
They will pay fire to posses it
Trust me, I speak from experience
Queens of the night
Their office opens at night
Adorned in skimpy gowns, no brassiere
Sometimes, with their nieces knickers
Exposing all exposables
You attract what you are
You get what you desire
Do you have a banging body
With seductive shape
All you get is a one night stand
No one wants to marry an empty barrel
Before you open your legs
Please, open your sense
Do you understand?
Before I drop my pen
Please repeat after me
Lord, Jesus, I come to you today
As my personal Lord and saviour
Deliver me from seductive spirit
That I might be made whole
Write my name in the book of life
Thank you for saving me. Amen!
Dec 13, 2019
Dec 13, 2019 at 1:07 PM UTC
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hills
The kinfolk were drinkin' as they tend to their stills
The longjohns were hung by the chimney with care
No stockings were found, just underwear
The children were nestled so high in their bunks
Their quilts made of skins from rabbits and skunks
Granny with her false teeth and gun on her knee
Was waiting for Santa as she sat by the tree
From out of the barn there arose such a noise
We thought it was Grandpa drinkin' with the boys
But what to my wandering eye should appear
It was just cousin Cleatus in mama's brassiere
And then from the rooftop we heard it at last
Like the sound of thunder or a shot gun blast
We have Christmas dinner, it's finally here
Granny kidnapped Santa while we shot his deer
Venison all covered with onions for stew
And even old Santa enjoyed some too
His belly was full when he walked out the door
But he couldn't resist when we offered him more
Well that's the story of our Christmas here
Merry Christmas to all 'til the same time next year
© All Rights Reserved
Dec 5, 2010
Dec 5, 2010 at 8:14 PM UTC
Spot, that lucky dog, is dead.
He did not live to see
what became of **** and Jane.
Let me relate their history.
**** and Jane now were in their teens
Vietnam was our national hell.
Jane mourned her fellows at Kent State.
Dick's squad stormed Hue's Citadel.
**** came back from Vietnam
a changed and distant man.
In sleep he'd mutter, toss and turn,
crying out like one who's dammed.
Jane became a feminist and
in protest burned her brassiere.
**** in monosylables
proclaimed he loved Jane dear
Soon Jane was having fun with ****
in the back seat of his car.
A different sort of fun, I think
than they ever had before.
They both tried marijuana
and both of them inhaled
They were discreet, unlike their friends
and avoided time in jail.
They lived together for a while
Eventually they married.
The product of their union was
two boys named Tom and Harry.
**** got work at Chysler
standing right beside his Dad.
He figured he was set for life.
He became a Union man.
Jane became a lawyer
working for A.C.L.U.
**** and Jane would often argue
about the causes she pursued.
By now the boys were growing up
and spending time with Dad
Out at Tiger Stadium
they had seats in the grandstand.
It seemed everything was perfect.
Of course everything was not.
**** and Jane fought frequently.
Her career was getting hot.
She no longer had much fun with ****
the passion had grown cold.
Cialis was not invented yet
and **** grew fat and bald.
Jane began to question why
she ever chose to marry.
Jane stopped having fun with ****
Jane now has fun with Sally.
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:02 PM UTC
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the hills
The kinfolk were drinkin' and tending their stills
The longjohns were hung by the chimney with care
No stockings were found, just underwear
The children were nestled so high in their bunks
Their quilts made of skins from rabbits and skunks
Granny with her false teeth and gun on her knee
Was waiting for Santa as she sat by the tree
From out of the barn there arose such a noise
We thought it was Grandpa drinkin' with the boys
But what to my wandering eye should appear
It was just cousin Cleatus in mama's brassiere
And then from the rooftop we heard it at last
Like the sound of thunder or a shot gun blast
We have Christmas dinner, it's finally here
Granny kidnapped Santa while we shot his deer
Venison all covered with onions for stew
And even old Santa enjoyed some too
His belly was full when he walked out the door
But he couldn't resist when we offered him more
Well that's the story of our Christmas here
Merry Christmas to all 'til the same time next year
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
i like **** of all sizes
no matter the shape we always make compromises
they're all generally hidden behind brassiere disguises
embellishing decorations that cover up glamorous prizes
i always got milk on hand
secreted from those voluptuous mammary glands
some may say they feel like water balloon brands
silicone addition seems like an unnecessary plan
honey nut oats with those titttiiiesss!
Dec 30, 2018
Dec 30, 2018 at 6:44 PM UTC
You were almost impossible to find
and in the void I suffered too much strife
and though with you I feel a bit confined,
having you has completely changed my life.
Impeccable and strong some seem to be
yet near my heart I find they stab and hurt…
Your support to me is reality
From your embrace I will never avert.
Brassiere, my dear, nothing could e’er replace
your loyalty, the hold, and daily hugs.
Rayon, spandex, nylon, and bits of lace
help hold the beating heart behind these jugs.
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 8:20 PM UTC
Come on skinny love just last the year
Pour a little salt we were never here
My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my
Staring at the sink of blood and crushed veneer
I tell my love to wreck it all
Cut out all the ropes and let me fall
My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my
Right in the moment this order’s tall
I told you to be patient
I told you to be fine
I told you to be balanced
I told you to be kind
In the morning I’ll be with you
But it will be a different “kind”
I’ll be holding all the tickets
And you’ll be owning all the fines
Come on skinny love what happened here
Suckle on the hope in lite brassiere
My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my
Sullen load is full; so slow on the split
I told you to be patient
I told you to be fine
I told you to be balanced
I told you to be kind
Now all your love is wasted?
Then who the hell was I?
Now I’m breaking at the britches
And at the end of all your lines
Who will love you?
Who will fight?
Who will fall far behind?
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 1:57 PM UTC
i am a house with a door
a lighthouse with sand around it
where a man takes a **** at night
away from his friends
i am a cold accidental touch
of the false pinky finger of
a janitor at work at a high school
i am burned to death in my apartment
flipped out on ***** coke
sold to me by a ****** salesman in
an envelope marked "Kotex $$"
i am disappearing into roots
a rusted out minivan in a trailer park yard
that no one drives
filled with fast food bags and baseballs
i am a glimpse into a lifespan
but only the part of the road that you can see
from your apartment building
i am an adventure
a warm wet raindrop
landing on your face
as you walk out of the door
onto your lawn in springtime
i am not a voice or an expression
like the quiet tattoo of a boat
you keep hidden in your brassiere
i am the cool dry pillow that you dream into
i collect butterflies and stamps
and old shoes from unconscious men
in the alleyways behind bars
and that's how i've decided to make a living
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 12:00 AM UTC
Dear NASA,
I read somewhere that voluptuous women
do well in zero-gravity environments.
This makes complete sense to me
(and the “ladies.”)
Trust me, I've seen the pictures—
and we want that.
Hear me out.
Gravity's a drag.
Bras are too ****** expensive.
I feel like I’d manage to look twenty-five
for another twenty-five years
if I could somehow
avoid the sandbaggage
that I'm doomed to inherit.
It's a comfortable thought
to picture the once distressed,
top-heavy lady population
floating in ecstasy,
brassiere-less and beaming—
soaking in a freedom so sweet
that a word just couldn't do it justice.
I think I speak for the whole
of my curvy comrades
when I say that we'd appreciate
your cooperation in getting the lead out
as you breach the final frontier.
Because let me level with you:
*there are plenty of things in this world
that can bring a girl down—
our most enjoyable assets
should not be two of them.*
Please join us in the fight to stay ****
With the warmest gratitude,
B
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 3:17 PM UTC
this morning
my brassiere
has made me
itch
its non natural fiber
is as rough
as a gravel ditch
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
Tonight, lanterns will swing freely like me, brassiere-less and glowing
Steam growing misty around my eyes,
My hair all pulled up, my bangs sticking to my forehead.
Lanterns will swing freely and the light will escape from them and create
Patterns on the glossy sidewalk
Plaster-white sidewalk with only a few pieces of black gum.
Lanterns will swing and patterns will dance and mirrors will tarnish
With time, green or brown, with cracks.
Until, perhaps, one day I shall not be able to see myself in them
My reflection might be murky and indistinguishable from that of a tree
Or a root
Or a dog
Or any other lonely person.
Tonight, the mirrors will crack and the glass will collect dust and piggy-banks will be left unshaken
Their promises unfulfilled,
Leaving empty tummies and sunken-welled eyes.
Tonight, the lanterns may swing free but the lightbulbs inside will be trapped,
Emaciated and skillfully looking for ways to break the glass.
Tonight, men will cry and mothers will mourn for themselves
And decisions will be decided
And switches will be flicked
And dancing will illuminate the gum
Nov 26, 2011
Nov 26, 2011 at 8:16 PM UTC
It's Chopin
Abela
informs me
the music's
from the old
radio
in our room
some foreign
cheap hotel
hark! Benny
just listen
to this part
(I was just
about to
undo her
plentiful
brassiere)
I listen
the pianist
(I don't know
who it was)
has stopped me
in mid play
listening
as the sound
of fingers
on keyboard
bring to life
Chopin's ghost
my pecker
has neither
ears nor eyes
doesn't hear
and stirs still
like some lone
****** there
upon his quest
in rough seas
unaware
the crew's left.
Aug 7, 2015
Aug 7, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
While not everybody naps
Simply everybody craps.
If you don’t you’re a goner
I swear by my honor
There’s no substitute for it
So just get used to it.
It’s like boogers, you see
It’s not talked of openly.
The public has an allergy
Of what can be said honestly.
You can admit to burping
But must do so excusing
As if you had taken a dump
Instead of expelling a lump
Of non-poisonous gas.
Society is a ***
And while we’re at it
We live in a world here
Where ******* are reshaped
And formed by a brassiere
But no crotch bulges for men
Especially not big shaped ones.
As I have already implied
Society is a mean son-of-a-gun.
Breastfeeding an infant is
Seen as some kind of ****
But under-aged girls in bikinis?
That is why men were born.
They were put on earth to see
And love nature and its gifts.
But women in public should
Not show uncovered ****
Just remember this and
You will do very well.
Being natural is for sure
The best way to go to hell.
You must always look to
The bluenosed of society
To shape your fine sense
Of decency and propriety.
A natural person, as God made
Is surely just the Devil’s work.
Because the Devil is more
Important that that God ****
God and Santa make lists
And punish us by and bye
But Satan does it right now
And then spits in your eye.
So, be the proper citizen
And don’t do what is natural.
Following on nature’s bent
Will do you no good at all.
Even though the Bible won’t
Agree to this simple plan
Just look around you to learn
What is in society’s plan.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 9:42 PM UTC
O monogamy, sweet so monogamy
Have me by this rimy night so I may bear your cold’st kiss
To espy eyes blazed in scarlet hue
If not for this holding us part, touching firm this instance
Of what I feel now I could not feel ever,
Could I bask in aughts - a goodness too true as so a sight worth sights
If pulchritude, if vagary...
To innerstand this sorrow, this phase, this ending of me
So lovesick of vanity, this night owes me tears
But tonight she has me, by her brassiere, by lips
Tangl’d in manner and salaciousness - her being to be
Wonder of me, wonder me; if I ever your knight
Wonder if I am enough, manifest your ways unto me
Demand I exist, under your eyes
Impart this velleity, four ways for ways...
Have me, O monogamy
With you will I always be? Your sabbath, your blind’st bliss as too mine
Split with me another moment for much time has rot
Mongst this lour’st hour my heart is wounded by the thorns of essence
To think we are but not cause to this grieve
In sooth; this everly passion now a mortal’s pule
Stay with me on this last’d night
A midnight kiss, a midnight touch, fragrance, a gentle glare...
Monogamy, monogamy.
Jan 20, 2018
Jan 20, 2018 at 8:38 PM UTC
Miss Schinzer do not undress
they said but she did and so
they locked her in the side
room alone and she heard the
key turn in the lock and that
was that she heard them walk
away along the passage heard
the footsteps getting soft and
softer then silence the silence
of that abbey she went to some
years back as a child and the nun
with her beady eyes said here
one must absorb the silence here
silence is our food and drink and
she remembered the way the nun
empathised the word silence
the way her lips moulded the word
as if it were brand new and not to
be damaged or spoilt but that was
then as a child before the voices
began before the orders were laid
out for her to obey do not undress
Miss Schinzer they had said but her
voices inside said undress take off
garment by garment and as you do
so think of Christ and how he was
disrobed and hammered to the wood
and she did hearing as she undressed
the hammer on nails the jacket and
then the blouse and then the brassiere
and she felt the chill about her *******
how they stiffened she thought waiting
to remove more cloth waiting for the
voice to say undress more of the clothes
and she recalled how Mr Dimpledone had
said the same thing but she was a child
then a girl in the choir but she didn’t ask
why she just undressed and he just stared
at her and said what are you doing child?
but you said so she said no no he said gruffly
be silent unless you want to leave the choir
but she didn’t remember him saying that not
then but couldn’t be sure and the voices said
take off the lower garments and so she removed
her skirt the black one the one that made her
look like a nun she took it off and then removed
her slip and underwear and sat on the floor quite
bare remembering the hanging Christ the hands
curled like ***** nailed to the cross beam his
naked flesh the wounds the blood and she lay
down flat and put out her arms forming a cross
and her legs tight together one foot touching
the other and over in the corner knitting and
humming some Schubert her bossed eyed mother.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 8:39 AM UTC
I don't know about your convolutions
Neither you do about mine
But we came this far, we did
We conquered, we lost, we forgot
While reading Frankenstein
I built you in the snow, I drew you in the sand
We saw construction and destruction
Walk together, hand in hand
You think the wind moves on when it blows?
But when love blows and dies, where does it go?
Does it emulsify in my heart again?
I wouldn't ever know
Why not be grateful for this evolution?
For it brings just another poetic revolution
And you know you don't have to
Compliment
Compliment my ****** poetry anymore
Or my face that has vaccine scars
Or my hair with split ends
For we are split too now, like two dead stars
Things that make me sad: permeable curtains
The rusted hooks on my fairly old Brassiere, hair fall
Not using conditioner, slowly losing it all
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 9:32 AM UTC
Even as a child
Bramshaw was obsessed
With brassieres;
He liked the shape
And bright colours;
He liked to imagine
Them filled with firm flesh,
Warm and motherly.
When he got older
He’d steal them
From neighbouring
Washing lines, stuff them
Beneath his coat
And put them
In the top drawer
Of his dresser along
With **** magazines,
French cigarettes
And photographs
Of Bridgett Bardot.
He liked to imagine
The women who filled them;
Liked to rub them
Against his cheek;
Liked to sniff them
For scent or sweat,
But all he got
Was detergent
And the smell of soap
And warm fresh air.
Later he got
To put them on,
Sizing them up,
Feeling them
Against his chest,
Fixing them from behind
With his fingers
Almost breaking his arms
In the process, he’d walk
Around his apartment
With just the brassiere,
Swaying his hips
And sticking out his
Imaginary breast,
Pretending he got
Wolf whistles
From loud guys
On building sites;
Imagined he got the stare
From the guy downstairs
With the blonde hair
And large blue eyes.
Once he bought a pair in blue,
The correct size saying
They were for his wife Lou,
And the girl was all helpful,
All information; pointing out
The this and that of brassieres;
And all the time he was gazing
At her ******* wondering
What colour she had, what size;
And only after that was done
Did he gaze into her eyes,
Into the window of her soul,
And saw small demons
Laughing at him
From each dark hole.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
It always makes me wake up when it hits;
When a rivulet of sweat runs between my ****
I wake up thinking some bug is walking there
Because it tickles my manly bit of chest hair.
Guys are built much different than the rest.
We are not supposed to have issues with our chest.
But here I am trying to get some sleep
Suddenly aware my cleavage is too deep.
Stuff is happening backwards that should not
What we supposed to do with this mess we’ve got?
Something’s got the world all upside down.
God must be a freaky circus clown.
Regardless of some nasty radio rants
I have no problem with women wearing pants.
And in life today as I have always seen
The woman is often the boss, big and mean.
And I have heard, in current affairs and state
That men can even, in time, learn to lactate.
But this one situation in which I have *******
Threatens to unhinge and drive me a bit loopy.
I guess, with time, I will someday get accustomed.
And I know some old ideas need to be jettisoned.
But I never expected that this would be a year
For me to go get fitted for an absorbent brassiere.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 9:42 PM UTC
Whenever I hear smooth jazz I think of you
You bring me up when I'm feeling blue
Your tanned body is just so silky smooth
One touch from you is like the fountain of youth
Your strut is like clockwork, you never miss a beat
I stare in amazement, you put me in heat
Whenever you leave me I feel so incomplete
I'm not proud, I willingly concede defeat
As you come closer and whisper in my ear
I reach around and release the clasp of your brassiere
As I lay in a state of total surrender
Your touch is magic, I could stay here forever
I need your love so badly. I ache for your caress
I truly am a lucky man, I truly have been blessed
Mar 22, 2019
Mar 22, 2019 at 7:16 PM UTC
Do not say the first thing first
Or the last thing last
Do not read the book in order
Do not order yourself not to cry
Take the unordinary and claim it extraordinary
Take the take the fabric and rip it until the holes are wider
Than the holes in your circumstance
Or the holes in your heart
Put down the gun and bandage the wound
That was made without firing a shot
Do not shoot the extraordinary thing
Pick it up and tuck it lovingly in your pocket
Or in your brassiere
Sew the heart up without anesthesia
Wind thread around it tightly
And say out loud the last words you would ever say
Under ordinary circumstance
Do not start at the beginning
Do not rip the book and cry over the pages
Bandage the book
Put down the wound
Read the gun
Claim the heart
Sew the pocket
Wind the rip
Fire the cry
Tuck the words
Shoot the thing
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
every ***** and deadbolt securely fastened in
my chest was unlatched, unscrewed, unfastened,
like a brassiere, yet it was also captivated by you.
for so long, i was simply a crane building towers
around me but you saw more use in me. turns
out, that use was also used to manipulate my
inner chords. no matter how long it took me to
write the musical notes, the harmony i once knew
was becoming weaker and weaker. at the time, i
should have known there was only static noise.
there was only brick walls and towers, only screws
and deadbolts securely fastened to your chest, only
a harmony i can't find the right notes to hit.
- kra
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 8:47 AM UTC
The toothbrush starts, “Enameled crooked crescents fence
a cavern filled by slimy growths and walls that tense.”
The towel ruffles, “Four protrusions rife with joints;
the fifth a rounded stump with sev’ral gentle points.”
“Agreed. The knobs and knuckles wear a supple coat;”
the loofah huffs, “it’s gritty, slick, and prone to bloat.”
The eyebrow brush retorts, “It’s two retracting domes
that cause a row of strands to flutter when one roams.”
“While ‘domes’ is right, I venture ‘jiggle’ as more apt -
along with perky, tapered tips.” the brassiere flapped.
The ****** giggle, “‘Bouncy’ could suffice as well,
but don’t forget the dampened folds and prickly swell.”
“Absurd!” exclaims the hairbrush, “More like brittle twine;
Entangled, oily knots that never quite align.”
“Not twine, but thistles bushing out in sweeping arcs,”
the razor sighs, “from paper that too clearly marks.”
A glassy voice laments, “Not one of them’s correct -
how easy this would be, if you could all reflect.”
Apr 3, 2021
Apr 3, 2021 at 2:07 PM UTC
I'll find the answer I'm looking for at the bottom of an empty wine glass. So I'll name this story;
THE BOTTOMLESS SIP
Don't justify your angst
Towards her with social stigma
The cropped top
And the bare brassiere strap
Wasn't for your pleasure and judiciary
It was a hot
And sweaty day man
And she knew I'd swing by tonight
Now listen here Layla
I know you work behind the bar
With another man
And I see how you feel
When his eyes tussle
With another woman's hide
Just like the other day
When you kept chasing my stare
And always seeming short
Because I knew
It was your turn to pry
I don't want to pick you up
Working behind the bar
Like every fool from afar
I've got something planned for us
But first I need to see
Where your commitment lies
You got a man at home
Waiting up and hopefully alone
I just need you
To give up on childish love
If you gonna look my way
Like an innocent dove
Take my hand
And lets make amends for lost time
But if you're serious
About the father of your child
Marry him forget me
And make more of your kind
Oct 24, 2017
Oct 24, 2017 at 8:36 AM UTC