"briefs" poems - Hello Poetry

"briefs" poems

Skyscrapers and mango trees wearing boxer briefs. The tantalizing wind blows caressing paperclips and mortuary signs— turning them indigo red for we all know that dead bodies are nothing but dead. Hymns of love and soliloquies of the unconscious ego— Id of our time but men of the past be our hero. Leaving to wonder, if king Nebuchadnezzar was a crack-feign would Coca Cola still educate penguins on the importance of Lesbian Existence? For in this war of life, cockroaches are the real winners, and the taste of excellence is only reserved for fire extinguishers — so if nuclear clouds persist, let the fire burn with love and you lay on the bed of oblivion cuddling the moral that capitalism leads to schizophrenia. So insure your sanity for free 99, this, with warm regards from yours truly, Rhizome of Golgotha.

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Nov 29, 2012

Nov 29, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC

ugochukwu-charles-onyewuchi

Love Letter to a Microwave

Skyscrapers and mango trees wearing boxer briefs. The tantalizing wind blows caressing paperclips and mortuary signs— turning them indigo red for we all know that dead bodies are nothing but dead. Hymns of love and soliloquies of the unconscious ego— Id of our time but men of the past be our hero. Leaving to wonder, if king Nebuchadnezzar was a crack-feign would Coca Cola still educate penguins on the importance of Lesbian Existence? For in this war of life, cockroaches are the real winners, and the taste of excellence is only reserved for fire extinguishers — so if nuclear clouds persist, let the fire burn with love and you lay on the bed of oblivion cuddling the moral that capitalism leads to schizophrenia. So insure your sanity for free 99, this, with warm regards from yours truly, Rhizome of Golgotha.

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I'm a ***** for hopeful words And a ***** to anything true, This is why I stayed and slept With you- The loneliness of your skin Bumping against The desperation of myself, bold( 3am, eight months later ) Still feels like perfection In bleached briefs.

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Sep 28, 2014

Sep 28, 2014 at 5:11 PM UTC

I'm a ***** for hopeful words And a ***** to anything true, This is why I stayed and slept With you- The loneliness of your skin Bumping against The desperation of myself, bold( 3am, eight months later ) Still feels like perfection In bleached briefs.

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The Holy Ones I want to shove socks in my pants, so it looks like I have one of those Italian-line painting ***** I want to do it when I go to the grocery store so fourteen-year olds and thirty-year olds alike stare at my junk as it fills the stitches of my pelvic arena, I want to make eye contact with mothers and grandmothers, brothers and dads as they shift uncomfortably in those handicap battery powered carts that are reserved for the handicapped but are often only used by the near-morbidly obese, near because they’re not quite dead yet, morbid because they can’t help but imagining my **** sliding past their tongue and what it feels like as the tip pushes past their uvula and they gasp for air through their nose because they’ve never had a **** like this in their mouth before. This would be my **** **** This would have me making lists of adult film star names for film star jobs I’d never take because I’d be busy making lists of phone numbers, the college girls I’d have my pick of ******* and the mothers and grandmothers who I’d be happily turning away from while I select my own organic radishes from the produce department at the specialty market on Vine. This **** is better than a rolled up wrapped stack of hundreds or the leather jacket I had in high school, it’d be better than when I walked down Michigan Ave in Umbro Valentino donning a Parisian accent, I can see me having to buy new briefs just to make room for this **** And my own **** getting jealous of the girth I’d be faking it’d swell up, and in the middle of ordering my four-pump Vanilla Almond milk Latte from Starbucks my gray wool socks would fall to the floor, and up from the band of my Acne Jeans would bulge the tip, just the tip, like she said when I was in college, or just the tip like I said when I just needed to feel something other than how emotionally wrecked you made me feel when you told me not to touch you anymore. You ****** me up righteously. And still, 380 women later, I’m ****** up and I don’t have a single pair of socks to wear

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Jan 13, 2018

Jan 13, 2018 at 1:34 AM UTC

The Holy Ones I want to shove socks in my pants, so it looks like I have one of those Italian-line painting ***** I want to do it when I go to the grocery store so fourteen-year olds and thirty-year olds alike stare at my junk as it fills the stitches of my pelvic arena, I want to make eye contact with mothers and grandmothers, brothers and dads as they shift uncomfortably in those handicap battery powered carts that are reserved for the handicapped but are often only used by the near-morbidly obese, near because they’re not quite dead yet, morbid because they can’t help but imagining my **** sliding past their tongue and what it feels like as the tip pushes past their uvula and they gasp for air through their nose because they’ve never had a **** like this in their mouth before. This would be my **** **** This would have me making lists of adult film star names for film star jobs I’d never take because I’d be busy making lists of phone numbers, the college girls I’d have my pick of ******* and the mothers and grandmothers who I’d be happily turning away from while I select my own organic radishes from the produce department at the specialty market on Vine. This **** is better than a rolled up wrapped stack of hundreds or the leather jacket I had in high school, it’d be better than when I walked down Michigan Ave in Umbro Valentino donning a Parisian accent, I can see me having to buy new briefs just to make room for this **** And my own **** getting jealous of the girth I’d be faking it’d swell up, and in the middle of ordering my four-pump Vanilla Almond milk Latte from Starbucks my gray wool socks would fall to the floor, and up from the band of my Acne Jeans would bulge the tip, just the tip, like she said when I was in college, or just the tip like I said when I just needed to feel something other than how emotionally wrecked you made me feel when you told me not to touch you anymore. You ****** me up righteously. And still, 380 women later, I’m ****** up and I don’t have a single pair of socks to wear

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Her press on nails graced her sunken in cheek Tracing the bone that seemed to cut like glass Remembering days of endless driving Her high heels out the window The sun whispered sweet nothings But no one knew how personal those were And here she is At the vanity of a ****** motel Dusting powder across lesions that spattered her skin ****** patches on her skin Just like holes in her skin She cries Removing the brown wig that she tossed for years Brushing it in her hands The tears held on as if they didn’t want to let go Standing She slips off her briefs Gazing into the mirror Horrified at the person staring back at her Invisible bones now visible Crevices and cavities too deep Webs of veins that were colored too brightly Wearing the anatomy of a man that was no longer there A body not worth surgery Wiping sweat off her forehead Smearing her drawn on eyebrows All she can hear is “Your mother and I gave birth to a son named Raymond. What happened?” That name echoed in her head Drawing pleads from her ears She collapsed Her thighs bruised from one too many needle-pricks Tracing each hole with her finger As if to draw out an answer She A forgotten woman Who only tried to cope Her t-shirts were too big “Raymond, Your T-Cell count is too low” A forgotten woman Who only tried to cope “Is this ‘cause you’re a ****** Raymond?” A forgotten woman Who only tried to cope “Raymond, there is no cure for AIDS” She wept Mascara staining her pale face Press on nails clutching her arms Hugging herself Because no one else was would Rayon died alone She was no longer forced to love from an infected vessel To hurt from a torn home To pray on laced knees This hotel room became a mausoleum Smelling of death and perfume Rayon was a forgotten woman Who only needed to cope But exiled by a community of people For loving too much

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Apr 9, 2014

Apr 9, 2014 at 11:46 PM UTC

Her press on nails graced her sunken in cheek Tracing the bone that seemed to cut like glass Remembering days of endless driving Her high heels out the window The sun whispered sweet nothings But no one knew how personal those were And here she is At the vanity of a ****** motel Dusting powder across lesions that spattered her skin ****** patches on her skin Just like holes in her skin She cries Removing the brown wig that she tossed for years Brushing it in her hands The tears held on as if they didn’t want to let go Standing She slips off her briefs Gazing into the mirror Horrified at the person staring back at her Invisible bones now visible Crevices and cavities too deep Webs of veins that were colored too brightly Wearing the anatomy of a man that was no longer there A body not worth surgery Wiping sweat off her forehead Smearing her drawn on eyebrows All she can hear is “Your mother and I gave birth to a son named Raymond. What happened?” That name echoed in her head Drawing pleads from her ears She collapsed Her thighs bruised from one too many needle-pricks Tracing each hole with her finger As if to draw out an answer She A forgotten woman Who only tried to cope Her t-shirts were too big “Raymond, Your T-Cell count is too low” A forgotten woman Who only tried to cope “Is this ‘cause you’re a ****** Raymond?” A forgotten woman Who only tried to cope “Raymond, there is no cure for AIDS” She wept Mascara staining her pale face Press on nails clutching her arms Hugging herself Because no one else was would Rayon died alone She was no longer forced to love from an infected vessel To hurt from a torn home To pray on laced knees This hotel room became a mausoleum Smelling of death and perfume Rayon was a forgotten woman Who only needed to cope But exiled by a community of people For loving too much

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i love you when we're alone because you eviscerate me in front of your friends but alone you kiss the veins in my arms press your small hips into my hips & sigh into my neck & blink so slowly that i can hear your eyelids whispering you won't hold my hand in public because you blatantly want to seem available to other men but when it's only you & it's only me we lie on our backs letting the summer rain collect in puddles in our bellybuttons & you swear to god there's only one way this can end you say i can't meet your parents but everything i do reminds you of your father that tall strong man of your childhood singing sinatra to your mother in the kitchen just like i do when i sneak behind you & tickle your neck with my tongue you're giggling as i carry you like a bride into your bedroom for naptime or playtime you only miss me when you're by yourself like a flower hidden in a fenced-in backyard but you ignore my texts most days because when your friends are around you're busy dancing toward the sun & lying to them about where you spent last night & the blueberry pancakes you ate for breakfast you don't mention the ticklish new rib spot i found or the quiet music we make together at night or the stars we wished on with our pinky fingers tied together i love you most when we're sticky asleep alone you humming in turquoise ******* snuggled into my armpit with your warm hand melting into my chest & me in the pinstripe boxer briefs you bought with my arm under and reaching for your exposed breast

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Jun 28, 2015

Jun 28, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC

blueberry pancakes

i love you when we're alone because you eviscerate me in front of your friends but alone you kiss the veins in my arms press your small hips into my hips & sigh into my neck & blink so slowly that i can hear your eyelids whispering you won't hold my hand in public because you blatantly want to seem available to other men but when it's only you & it's only me we lie on our backs letting the summer rain collect in puddles in our bellybuttons & you swear to god there's only one way this can end you say i can't meet your parents but everything i do reminds you of your father that tall strong man of your childhood singing sinatra to your mother in the kitchen just like i do when i sneak behind you & tickle your neck with my tongue you're giggling as i carry you like a bride into your bedroom for naptime or playtime you only miss me when you're by yourself like a flower hidden in a fenced-in backyard but you ignore my texts most days because when your friends are around you're busy dancing toward the sun & lying to them about where you spent last night & the blueberry pancakes you ate for breakfast you don't mention the ticklish new rib spot i found or the quiet music we make together at night or the stars we wished on with our pinky fingers tied together i love you most when we're sticky asleep alone you humming in turquoise ******* snuggled into my armpit with your warm hand melting into my chest & me in the pinstripe boxer briefs you bought with my arm under and reaching for your exposed breast

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Hymn to an Art-o-matic Laundromat by Michael R. Burch after Richard Thomas Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer” O, terrible-immaculate ALL-cleansing godly Laundromat, where cleanliness is next to Art —a bright Kinkade (bought at K-Mart), a Persian rug (made in Taiwan), a Royal Bonn Clock (time zone Guam)— embrace my *** in cushioned vinyl, erase all marks: **** vaginal, ****** inkspot, red wine, dirt. O, sterilize her skirt, my shirt, my skidmarked briefs, her padded bra; suds-away in your white maw all filth, the day’s accumulation. Make us pure by INUNDATION. Published by The Oldie, where it was the winner of a poetry contest. This poem was inspired by the incongruence of discovering "works of art" while doing laundry at a laundromat with coin-operated washers and dryers. I was reminded of the experience while reading Richard Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer.” Keywords/Tags: hymn, art, America, Americana, laundry, laundromat, washer, dryer, appliances, clean, cleaning, cleanliness, clothes, clothing, underwear, god, godly, godliness, water, baptism, inundation, sonnet, analogy, humor

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Nov 28, 2021

Nov 28, 2021 at 11:50 PM UTC

michael-r-burch

Hymn to an Art-o-matic Laundromat

Hymn to an Art-o-matic Laundromat by Michael R. Burch after Richard Thomas Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer” O, terrible-immaculate ALL-cleansing godly Laundromat, where cleanliness is next to Art —a bright Kinkade (bought at K-Mart), a Persian rug (made in Taiwan), a Royal Bonn Clock (time zone Guam)— embrace my *** in cushioned vinyl, erase all marks: **** vaginal, ****** inkspot, red wine, dirt. O, sterilize her skirt, my shirt, my skidmarked briefs, her padded bra; suds-away in your white maw all filth, the day’s accumulation. Make us pure by INUNDATION. Published by The Oldie, where it was the winner of a poetry contest. This poem was inspired by the incongruence of discovering "works of art" while doing laundry at a laundromat with coin-operated washers and dryers. I was reminded of the experience while reading Richard Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer.” Keywords/Tags: hymn, art, America, Americana, laundry, laundromat, washer, dryer, appliances, clean, cleaning, cleanliness, clothes, clothing, underwear, god, godly, godliness, water, baptism, inundation, sonnet, analogy, humor

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Put on a clean shirt before you die, some Russian said. Nothing with drool, please, no egg spots, no blood, no sweat, no ***** You want me clean, God, so I'll try to comply. The hat I was married in, will it do? White, broad, fake flowers in a tiny array. It's old-fashioned, as stylish as a bedbug, but is suits to die in something nostalgic. And I'll take my painting shirt washed over and over of course spotted with every yellow kitchen I've painted. God, you don't mind if I bring all my kitchens? They hold the family laughter and the soup. For a bra (need we mention it?), the padded black one that my lover demeaned when I took it off. He said, "Where'd it all go?" And I'll take the maternity skirt of my ninth month, a window for the love-belly that let each baby pop out like and apple, the water breaking in the restaurant, making a noisy house I'd like to die in. For underpants I'll pick white cotton, the briefs of my childhood, for it was my mother's dictum that nice girls wore only white cotton. If my mother had lived to see it she would have put a WANTED sign up in the post office for the black, the red, the blue I've worn. Still, it would be perfectly fine with me to die like a nice girl smelling of Clorox and Duz. Being sixteen-in-the-pants I would die full of questions.

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Put on a clean shirt before you die, some Russian said. Nothing with drool, please, no egg spots, no blood, no sweat, no ***** You want me clean, God, so I'll try to comply. The hat I was married in, will it do? White, broad, fake flowers in a tiny array. It's old-fashioned, as stylish as a bedbug, but is suits to die in something nostalgic. And I'll take my painting shirt washed over and over of course spotted with every yellow kitchen I've painted. God, you don't mind if I bring all my kitchens? They hold the family laughter and the soup. For a bra (need we mention it?), the padded black one that my lover demeaned when I took it off. He said, "Where'd it all go?" And I'll take the maternity skirt of my ninth month, a window for the love-belly that let each baby pop out like and apple, the water breaking in the restaurant, making a noisy house I'd like to die in. For underpants I'll pick white cotton, the briefs of my childhood, for it was my mother's dictum that nice girls wore only white cotton. If my mother had lived to see it she would have put a WANTED sign up in the post office for the black, the red, the blue I've worn. Still, it would be perfectly fine with me to die like a nice girl smelling of Clorox and Duz. Being sixteen-in-the-pants I would die full of questions.

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I want to ****** you with my blue eyes take you in for a little while then walk away into another room then come back and take you in a little while longer until you come over and speak to me then I want to listen to your every word nod, smile, laugh, touch your arm touch your thigh look into your eyes telling you I want to kiss you secretly in some kind of visual code, that I want to lick your neck a little bit and nibble on your ear make you go crazy make you tingle and pull away from feeling too overwhelmed then coming back to receive more, and after that happens, I want to crawl my fingers up your shirt feel your warm stomach skin ribs chest shoulders pulling it over your head and throwing it on the floor caressing your torso hand prints against your back pulling you closer toward me pressing my pelvis up against yours taking initiative on my tippytoes letting you take initiative bending your back to my height and it’s all muscle memory from there on; breaking away from your lips and pressing my own up against your collar bone your shoulders your chest your treasure trail your hip bones undoing your belt taking quite some time at this task because I find that every man’s belt is very confusing to undo - finally, success pulling it through the belt loops popping the button out of the hole unzipping the zipper clasping onto each side and pulling down pushing down they’re around your ankles and you step out and then you’re in your briefs just your briefs all else is skin and devilish looks then, pushing me onto the bed on top of me with a hard on pressing up against the space between my open legs that wrap around your hips kissing my neck biting my neck licking my neck my earlobes my shoulders my collar bone tongue swirls around the aroused tips of my chest arousing me more wanting me more wanting you more then you’ll take off my underwear and I’ll be fully naked for you on this bed that I want to **** you on biting my lip leaning forward to pull down your briefs and you are fully naked for me you pop out freely hard stiff pink eager your two fingers linger low and decide I am ready in goes the stiff out goes a moan out pulls the stiff in it goes again I cannot describe what it is like when you look me in the eyes when we make love

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Sep 29, 2012

Sep 29, 2012 at 9:49 AM UTC

I want to ****** you with my blue eyes take you in for a little while then walk away into another room then come back and take you in a little while longer until you come over and speak to me then I want to listen to your every word nod, smile, laugh, touch your arm touch your thigh look into your eyes telling you I want to kiss you secretly in some kind of visual code, that I want to lick your neck a little bit and nibble on your ear make you go crazy make you tingle and pull away from feeling too overwhelmed then coming back to receive more, and after that happens, I want to crawl my fingers up your shirt feel your warm stomach skin ribs chest shoulders pulling it over your head and throwing it on the floor caressing your torso hand prints against your back pulling you closer toward me pressing my pelvis up against yours taking initiative on my tippytoes letting you take initiative bending your back to my height and it’s all muscle memory from there on; breaking away from your lips and pressing my own up against your collar bone your shoulders your chest your treasure trail your hip bones undoing your belt taking quite some time at this task because I find that every man’s belt is very confusing to undo - finally, success pulling it through the belt loops popping the button out of the hole unzipping the zipper clasping onto each side and pulling down pushing down they’re around your ankles and you step out and then you’re in your briefs just your briefs all else is skin and devilish looks then, pushing me onto the bed on top of me with a hard on pressing up against the space between my open legs that wrap around your hips kissing my neck biting my neck licking my neck my earlobes my shoulders my collar bone tongue swirls around the aroused tips of my chest arousing me more wanting me more wanting you more then you’ll take off my underwear and I’ll be fully naked for you on this bed that I want to **** you on biting my lip leaning forward to pull down your briefs and you are fully naked for me you pop out freely hard stiff pink eager your two fingers linger low and decide I am ready in goes the stiff out goes a moan out pulls the stiff in it goes again I cannot describe what it is like when you look me in the eyes when we make love

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A Lawyer stood squirming in court. He said "Hey there Judge, be a sport". "You just haven't got a clue, what my new underwear does do, for my briefs, grant a recess, so short."

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Aug 24, 2010

Aug 24, 2010 at 7:34 AM UTC

A Lawyer stood squirming in court. He said "Hey there Judge, be a sport". "You just haven't got a clue, what my new underwear does do, for my briefs, grant a recess, so short."

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Do you remember the night I came down, and you were sitting on the windowsill? One leg up and the other left hanging, in one of your white oversized shirts and your hot-pink pajama pants. Outside the snow fell like feathers, blue in the moonlight and black in the shadows, with a tinge of orange from that annoying nearby streetlight. You looked at me, saw me in my blue boxer briefs and teal t-shirt, and you didn’t say a word, and neither did I. Neither of us had to. I sat down beside you, a mirror image, and we stared with deafening expressions. The snow piled on like feathers strewn across the room of two lovers too happy to control themselves. I looked into the darkness, and you glanced at the orange sun tainting the solemn blue hue. And then you turned away, walked away. I stayed, watching the snow fall in the dark. - by Aleksander Mielnikow

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Mar 15, 2019

Mar 15, 2019 at 9:33 PM UTC

The Nearby Streetlight

Do you remember the night I came down, and you were sitting on the windowsill? One leg up and the other left hanging, in one of your white oversized shirts and your hot-pink pajama pants. Outside the snow fell like feathers, blue in the moonlight and black in the shadows, with a tinge of orange from that annoying nearby streetlight. You looked at me, saw me in my blue boxer briefs and teal t-shirt, and you didn’t say a word, and neither did I. Neither of us had to. I sat down beside you, a mirror image, and we stared with deafening expressions. The snow piled on like feathers strewn across the room of two lovers too happy to control themselves. I looked into the darkness, and you glanced at the orange sun tainting the solemn blue hue. And then you turned away, walked away. I stayed, watching the snow fall in the dark. - by Aleksander Mielnikow

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*before you start reading, please not that the Barbie in this poem is not the registered trademark that is the Barbie doll (all is revealed in the notes)* When Barbie wakes up in the morning Even the birds stop chirping in fright She makes her way to the wardrobe knowing What is inside will start the day right First to be donned is her barbarian bra It takes quite a task to fill She really is ever so grateful for her bra It keeps all the best bits subdued and still The bras must always go on first Without it she would be in trouble If the briefs went on first without the bra To this day she’d still be bent over double Next on are the bountiful bootylicious briefs She worries that they may have shrunk Mayhap she should stop putting them in the dryer They are essential to keep all her junk in her trunk Over the top of the barbarian bra Goes a sweater with the deepest V neck you’ll find The cleavage that is on display is important It keeps the focus from straying to her behind On go the boots and laced up tight These babies were made for walking But most days they are just for comfort Unless she’s up for some stalking Last of all on her perfectly coiffed head She settles her beautiful hat It looks a little like a large table umbrella In fact, once upon a time, it was actually that! She’s now ready to start her day And the birds resume chirping like a choir Barbie is ready to face the world dressed in her Barbarian Bra and Bountiful Bootylicious Briefs and Other Amazing Attire

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Nov 21, 2013

Nov 21, 2013 at 2:03 AM UTC

Barbies Barbarian Bra and Bountiful Bootylicious Briefs and Other Amazing Attire

*before you start reading, please not that the Barbie in this poem is not the registered trademark that is the Barbie doll (all is revealed in the notes)* When Barbie wakes up in the morning Even the birds stop chirping in fright She makes her way to the wardrobe knowing What is inside will start the day right First to be donned is her barbarian bra It takes quite a task to fill She really is ever so grateful for her bra It keeps all the best bits subdued and still The bras must always go on first Without it she would be in trouble If the briefs went on first without the bra To this day she’d still be bent over double Next on are the bountiful bootylicious briefs She worries that they may have shrunk Mayhap she should stop putting them in the dryer They are essential to keep all her junk in her trunk Over the top of the barbarian bra Goes a sweater with the deepest V neck you’ll find The cleavage that is on display is important It keeps the focus from straying to her behind On go the boots and laced up tight These babies were made for walking But most days they are just for comfort Unless she’s up for some stalking Last of all on her perfectly coiffed head She settles her beautiful hat It looks a little like a large table umbrella In fact, once upon a time, it was actually that! She’s now ready to start her day And the birds resume chirping like a choir Barbie is ready to face the world dressed in her Barbarian Bra and Bountiful Bootylicious Briefs and Other Amazing Attire

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Little princess had a plan, To fall in love with a handsome man, Little princess got her plans all wrong, With her natural face; no makeup and briefs; no thong, Little princess took some advice, In search of a man she would have to look nice, Little princess went out to town, Got some suspenders, a wax and a new crown, Little princess found a man, With money, looks, many a lady fan, Little princess bagged the fella, But what the adviser didn't tell her, Is once little princess took him home... She would wake up all alone. Little princess should have stuck to her original plan, Maybe then she would have found her dream man.

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Feb 17, 2013

Feb 17, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC

Little Princess

Little princess had a plan, To fall in love with a handsome man, Little princess got her plans all wrong, With her natural face; no makeup and briefs; no thong, Little princess took some advice, In search of a man she would have to look nice, Little princess went out to town, Got some suspenders, a wax and a new crown, Little princess found a man, With money, looks, many a lady fan, Little princess bagged the fella, But what the adviser didn't tell her, Is once little princess took him home... She would wake up all alone. Little princess should have stuck to her original plan, Maybe then she would have found her dream man.

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wednesday .. is faded black jeans/old white tank (too big) (hole from belt buckle centre front) glass of water stuck into the rings left by past week's mugs of beer sitting by the ashtray. and you are better than a nip of rye in the truck cab heading to work. the dust in my lungs (wide open saskatchewan fields) is not as important as watching the clouds stain purple with the sunrise patting two gorgeous farm dogs who run over from behind a silo turned to bronze in the light (there is an angel laying naked in the wheat grain) to nip playfully at my calves while i unchain the derrick, somewhere in my mind's recess it feels like i am loosing atlas from his ******* tho i do not register the thought until later upon waking from a nap. saturday // 1:15:44 pm i am in only briefs now working on a song/i clocked 4 hrs greasing truck 1117 this morning and hauling pallets. daylene from dispatch brought in donuts. i'll spend the afternoon listening to kanye and talking to women online. —there are no girls in estevan. i have (kind of) looked. sometimes i believe this to be pathetic but then i think further ahead and it's not so bad. you do really meet some nice girls. phone is replete with their numbers & they keep me company on long rides to and from leases, asking about work. hoping that i am well. (once back home by christmas account will be deleted and i can take them out at my leisure. you'll understand i hope that i am not a desperate man. but one has to work with that which he has. would you rather i go lonely? make my home in the mud to croon hank williams to crows?) (temporality.) 15/10/2012 there are now three beer cans on the carpet & one on the washing machine by the bathroom door which i will drink in the shower. it was sort of a long day.

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Oct 15, 2012

Oct 15, 2012 at 3:09 PM UTC

rough / basement clothes (three days)

wednesday .. is faded black jeans/old white tank (too big) (hole from belt buckle centre front) glass of water stuck into the rings left by past week's mugs of beer sitting by the ashtray. and you are better than a nip of rye in the truck cab heading to work. the dust in my lungs (wide open saskatchewan fields) is not as important as watching the clouds stain purple with the sunrise patting two gorgeous farm dogs who run over from behind a silo turned to bronze in the light (there is an angel laying naked in the wheat grain) to nip playfully at my calves while i unchain the derrick, somewhere in my mind's recess it feels like i am loosing atlas from his ******* tho i do not register the thought until later upon waking from a nap. saturday // 1:15:44 pm i am in only briefs now working on a song/i clocked 4 hrs greasing truck 1117 this morning and hauling pallets. daylene from dispatch brought in donuts. i'll spend the afternoon listening to kanye and talking to women online. —there are no girls in estevan. i have (kind of) looked. sometimes i believe this to be pathetic but then i think further ahead and it's not so bad. you do really meet some nice girls. phone is replete with their numbers & they keep me company on long rides to and from leases, asking about work. hoping that i am well. (once back home by christmas account will be deleted and i can take them out at my leisure. you'll understand i hope that i am not a desperate man. but one has to work with that which he has. would you rather i go lonely? make my home in the mud to croon hank williams to crows?) (temporality.) 15/10/2012 there are now three beer cans on the carpet & one on the washing machine by the bathroom door which i will drink in the shower. it was sort of a long day.

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The lawyers walk along the street thousand dollar shoes upon their feet Housed in buildings, tenth floor with views office not a cube, paying out club dues Banging the legal secretary, on the ottoman her bonus not a surprise, to each and everyone The kids put up, at greater boarding schools home they'll be for the holidays, thinkin dad's a tool The Benz is in the shop, the BMW second choice wife's harping, just won't stop, grating is the voice The boss wants the briefs by noon, you better get them in he'll have your nuts over a fire, and that's, just to begin If my boss were the Devil, a few things I would do like bring him morning coffee, and a pastry, one or two There's no winning in the end, to hell you will be bound after all of your summations, Devil still, will drag you down

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Feb 17, 2017

Feb 17, 2017 at 10:52 AM UTC

The Devil, is a lawyer

The lawyers walk along the street thousand dollar shoes upon their feet Housed in buildings, tenth floor with views office not a cube, paying out club dues Banging the legal secretary, on the ottoman her bonus not a surprise, to each and everyone The kids put up, at greater boarding schools home they'll be for the holidays, thinkin dad's a tool The Benz is in the shop, the BMW second choice wife's harping, just won't stop, grating is the voice The boss wants the briefs by noon, you better get them in he'll have your nuts over a fire, and that's, just to begin If my boss were the Devil, a few things I would do like bring him morning coffee, and a pastry, one or two There's no winning in the end, to hell you will be bound after all of your summations, Devil still, will drag you down

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Soggy, forgotten rotten eggs. Sink side. Gobbledy gnus cruising, fast acting cheetah be cheetah for the eggs are scare and the Time is new. The few are no longer fastened tightly to these hatchlings, the weather is near and all the tides are complicated. I could stand around in my underwear, but there isn't a single night song or nightengale that would hear me. There's a thud on my head and a knock on the door, I can't sing my best, or try to impress thee. All of these letters un rest to the sound of your voice, even in calfskin a vegetarian can begin to have trouble breathing. To the cables that untie thlemselves to a broom in a paradise, Pacific, galore. Forgot to. Invested. Contained poorl and drunks stowed in the holograms of hand-me-down prisms, here comes the infectuous lonely ol' lamb. This is the ewe song that sings you to sleep, keeps the sweat in your underwear. Where there is hunger there are poor but my gold chants forward to this Armageddon's sway. If it means it in Greek than it does in cyrillic, if it's toxin you have rotted your bell. Inside my pink, neon briefs is a tale of insanity, where I had tried to squeeze out every ounce of relief that commenced while I was asleep. There was only ever one of us that ran with the turmoil that romance does. Terminal two, Arizona-flu, carried through the ORD concourse I heard a saxophone tune. Final approach, a yawn. I'm home drinking ***** at 9:00am with my PJs on.

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Jan 23, 2015

Jan 23, 2015 at 11:27 PM UTC

Drinking ***** With My PJs On

Soggy, forgotten rotten eggs. Sink side. Gobbledy gnus cruising, fast acting cheetah be cheetah for the eggs are scare and the Time is new. The few are no longer fastened tightly to these hatchlings, the weather is near and all the tides are complicated. I could stand around in my underwear, but there isn't a single night song or nightengale that would hear me. There's a thud on my head and a knock on the door, I can't sing my best, or try to impress thee. All of these letters un rest to the sound of your voice, even in calfskin a vegetarian can begin to have trouble breathing. To the cables that untie thlemselves to a broom in a paradise, Pacific, galore. Forgot to. Invested. Contained poorl and drunks stowed in the holograms of hand-me-down prisms, here comes the infectuous lonely ol' lamb. This is the ewe song that sings you to sleep, keeps the sweat in your underwear. Where there is hunger there are poor but my gold chants forward to this Armageddon's sway. If it means it in Greek than it does in cyrillic, if it's toxin you have rotted your bell. Inside my pink, neon briefs is a tale of insanity, where I had tried to squeeze out every ounce of relief that commenced while I was asleep. There was only ever one of us that ran with the turmoil that romance does. Terminal two, Arizona-flu, carried through the ORD concourse I heard a saxophone tune. Final approach, a yawn. I'm home drinking ***** at 9:00am with my PJs on.

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What happens when an open space, once a canvas to your thoughts, turn into a dingy cabin, where you are chained to a chair with no lumbar support and a program is chipped into your brain to decode client briefs, one after the other, however idiotic they might be, only to churn out results that will please a super boss, who has done the same, for n number of years more than you, so that the numbers that are not on your side, look irrelevant, coz the money that you are making for the company is very relevant, to them, their family and the rest of mankind, but you? You quit. No, wait You’ve got EMI’s to pay.

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Nov 21, 2016

Nov 21, 2016 at 5:30 AM UTC

What happens when an open space, once a canvas to your thoughts, turn into a dingy cabin, where you are chained to a chair with no lumbar support and a program is chipped into your brain to decode client briefs, one after the other, however idiotic they might be, only to churn out results that will please a super boss, who has done the same, for n number of years more than you, so that the numbers that are not on your side, look irrelevant, coz the money that you are making for the company is very relevant, to them, their family and the rest of mankind, but you? You quit. No, wait You’ve got EMI’s to pay.

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I really love Dave Blogs and Briefs are a plenty Check on Knowledge Base

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May 31, 2014

May 31, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC

I really love Dave Blogs and Briefs are a plenty Check on Knowledge Base

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when she crossed the line Exactly as expected it would be a snowy Christmas, white and colored bright; (by strict request) I hung her favorite lights about the house, so that the neighbors see together we're a happy family. She'd picked her gift, but what a sour sight when, Christmas day, I didn't get it right. And all was fine until she asked of me – the last she'd ever ask of me. She tells me "I don't like your underwear." She reels off, "we compromise our comfort" (that bold ***** "I'll be your man, but know my manhood holds. I'll never change my boxer briefs" which feel, in icy weather, warming." Comfort yields.

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Mar 5, 2012

Mar 5, 2012 at 12:38 AM UTC

when she crossed the line Exactly as expected it would be a snowy Christmas, white and colored bright; (by strict request) I hung her favorite lights about the house, so that the neighbors see together we're a happy family. She'd picked her gift, but what a sour sight when, Christmas day, I didn't get it right. And all was fine until she asked of me – the last she'd ever ask of me. She tells me "I don't like your underwear." She reels off, "we compromise our comfort" (that bold ***** "I'll be your man, but know my manhood holds. I'll never change my boxer briefs" which feel, in icy weather, warming." Comfort yields.

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I. I held her hand and tried to keep my voice from shaking as I whispered to her my love. She squeezed mine in return, smiled that sweet smile of hers, and said she felt the same. She traced the jawline covered in fat but for once I felt beautiful, her hands were in my hair and her lips were so so close to mine. Then she kissed me in the dark so no one could see. II. I told her who I was and she loved me anyway. Even though sometimes she had a girlfriend, and other times just a capsule of spiky-haired affection. She loved me in my binder and in my bra, with my ******* and my briefs, she said it didn't matter. But she kissed me in the dark so her mother wouldn't see. III. We were both at a party, but from different social classes. We both wound up in a quiet room, and I wanted him to notice me. He started talking and I let my mind wander; talking made it seem real, as if maybe, by some force of the world, we could actually be together. He smiled enough for me to know it was because of me, and he let his hands brush mine for a minute. And in the dim glow from the pary, our reflections came nearer and nearer on the glass doors giving way to the milky snow outside, and as snow fell gently down to earth my heart melted from the joy I felt. Then he kissed me in the dark so his friends wouldn't see. IV. Yes I know you love me, and you make it clear your care, but when you hide me away from the people in your life I feel as if I shouldn't be there. Yes you've whispered happiness, and assured me of my beauty, but when you ignore me when you're out in public, is it because you're ashamed of me?

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Jan 10, 2014

Jan 10, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC

Then He Kissed Me In The Dark

I. I held her hand and tried to keep my voice from shaking as I whispered to her my love. She squeezed mine in return, smiled that sweet smile of hers, and said she felt the same. She traced the jawline covered in fat but for once I felt beautiful, her hands were in my hair and her lips were so so close to mine. Then she kissed me in the dark so no one could see. II. I told her who I was and she loved me anyway. Even though sometimes she had a girlfriend, and other times just a capsule of spiky-haired affection. She loved me in my binder and in my bra, with my ******* and my briefs, she said it didn't matter. But she kissed me in the dark so her mother wouldn't see. III. We were both at a party, but from different social classes. We both wound up in a quiet room, and I wanted him to notice me. He started talking and I let my mind wander; talking made it seem real, as if maybe, by some force of the world, we could actually be together. He smiled enough for me to know it was because of me, and he let his hands brush mine for a minute. And in the dim glow from the pary, our reflections came nearer and nearer on the glass doors giving way to the milky snow outside, and as snow fell gently down to earth my heart melted from the joy I felt. Then he kissed me in the dark so his friends wouldn't see. IV. Yes I know you love me, and you make it clear your care, but when you hide me away from the people in your life I feel as if I shouldn't be there. Yes you've whispered happiness, and assured me of my beauty, but when you ignore me when you're out in public, is it because you're ashamed of me?

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I wear men's 9 shoes, and black socks underneath Batman boxer briefs during morning shifts And cotton boxers when I sleep Boot-cut jeans during the winter and capri joggers during spring Long sleeve, and short sleeve button ups Are pretty much my thing. My glasses are black, lenses thick. My hair cut short, just recently dyed. If I didn't have ******* You'd think I'm a guy.

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Aug 22, 2015

Aug 22, 2015 at 3:37 AM UTC

I wear men's 9 shoes, and black socks underneath Batman boxer briefs during morning shifts And cotton boxers when I sleep Boot-cut jeans during the winter and capri joggers during spring Long sleeve, and short sleeve button ups Are pretty much my thing. My glasses are black, lenses thick. My hair cut short, just recently dyed. If I didn't have ******* You'd think I'm a guy.

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Rick is such an unfortunate name it's like ICK with a little extra ERR Imagine a flight attendant his name is Rrrick he's offering you chicken or beef take your ******* pick what's it gonna be what's taking you so long CHICKEN????????!!!!!!! or ******* BEEF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!???????????? he walks away with his tight *** pants hugging his nasty **** **** you know he needs to plug it and you know every time he rips a rotten one he's squirtin out some ky jelly into his briefs yeah that's pretty disgusting so disgusting in fact i may be driven to induce vomiting what you say: **** I MISS YOU" what you mean: **** i wish i could date rick and **** you all at the same time" what you say: "is it bad to have rick and still can't wait to get home and jack off?" what you mean: "his *** is as loose as a cannon, i regret choosing his *** over yours." what you say: "I need someone more on my level." what you mean: "hes willing to **** at any given second of the day.. you were too much of a **** hassle." what you say: "Still trying to find where all the YOUNG, WHITE bois hide" what you mean: "Hi I'm still old, fat, ugly, ***** and stickin it in a flight attendant who walks funnier than I do!" WHY CAN'T YOU JUST SAY WHAT YOU ******* MEAN WHAT's IT GONNA BE CHICKEN OR BEEF !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BUT WHAT IF IM A VEGAN well then you're stuck with the ******* chicken .

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Sep 26, 2010

Sep 26, 2010 at 9:56 PM UTC

Chicken or Beef

Rick is such an unfortunate name it's like ICK with a little extra ERR Imagine a flight attendant his name is Rrrick he's offering you chicken or beef take your ******* pick what's it gonna be what's taking you so long CHICKEN????????!!!!!!! or ******* BEEF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!???????????? he walks away with his tight *** pants hugging his nasty **** **** you know he needs to plug it and you know every time he rips a rotten one he's squirtin out some ky jelly into his briefs yeah that's pretty disgusting so disgusting in fact i may be driven to induce vomiting what you say: **** I MISS YOU" what you mean: **** i wish i could date rick and **** you all at the same time" what you say: "is it bad to have rick and still can't wait to get home and jack off?" what you mean: "his *** is as loose as a cannon, i regret choosing his *** over yours." what you say: "I need someone more on my level." what you mean: "hes willing to **** at any given second of the day.. you were too much of a **** hassle." what you say: "Still trying to find where all the YOUNG, WHITE bois hide" what you mean: "Hi I'm still old, fat, ugly, ***** and stickin it in a flight attendant who walks funnier than I do!" WHY CAN'T YOU JUST SAY WHAT YOU ******* MEAN WHAT's IT GONNA BE CHICKEN OR BEEF !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! BUT WHAT IF IM A VEGAN well then you're stuck with the ******* chicken .

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I'm wearing dead man's underwear I ask what's wrong with that Something you see they no longer need Where they now are at From Jockey's whitey tighties To boxers by the score Don't much matter to me What this dead man wore With the right amount of detergent The proper amount of bleach Like I said four lines back Don't matter much to me Now please don't rush to judgement Or my life preconceive We all have our different ways Of carrying on their memories Me...I just do it in dead man's briefs

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Jun 23, 2015

Jun 23, 2015 at 3:38 PM UTC

Dead Man's Underwear

I'm wearing dead man's underwear I ask what's wrong with that Something you see they no longer need Where they now are at From Jockey's whitey tighties To boxers by the score Don't much matter to me What this dead man wore With the right amount of detergent The proper amount of bleach Like I said four lines back Don't matter much to me Now please don't rush to judgement Or my life preconceive We all have our different ways Of carrying on their memories Me...I just do it in dead man's briefs

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I want to be the only desire you have when you wake up in the middle of the night sweating for pleasure; where the tension is so strong I stir in my sleep to ask you what is the matter and you timidly answer that you had a nightmare, even though it's a lie and you're too shy to admit to your carnal need and express that the real reason you're awake is because your dream nearly made you wet and it disturbed you because the person in your head at the time wasn't me. It all seemed so real, until you woke up with my small frame beside you, with my chest rising and falling slowly and the growing pressure against your boxer briefs was becoming too much as you stared at my smooth skin. I nearly frightened you when I asked of your well-being, you didn't think that wishing I would wake would work. As you told me you had woken from terror, I turned over drowsily crawling over you to embrace you with kisses and 'everything will be alrights.' When you started to shiver from my affections I knew that there were other reasons we both had stirred like this in the middle of the night. Our passion became heated, but I could smell the guilt on you. Something was wrong, something was the matter. We continued though until we both finished in each others' sweat and had inhaled enough of one-another's carbon dioxide to save thousands of trees. Only then did you tell me another had tasted who I wanted so badly to keep for my own for the rest of my life. Only then did you tell me you did me wrong in so many ways. Only then did you tell me that you no longer dreamed of me and you abandoned me. Just like everyone else. Just like you promised... That you never would.

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Mar 15, 2014

Mar 15, 2014 at 7:13 PM UTC

I'm Never Needed

I want to be the only desire you have when you wake up in the middle of the night sweating for pleasure; where the tension is so strong I stir in my sleep to ask you what is the matter and you timidly answer that you had a nightmare, even though it's a lie and you're too shy to admit to your carnal need and express that the real reason you're awake is because your dream nearly made you wet and it disturbed you because the person in your head at the time wasn't me. It all seemed so real, until you woke up with my small frame beside you, with my chest rising and falling slowly and the growing pressure against your boxer briefs was becoming too much as you stared at my smooth skin. I nearly frightened you when I asked of your well-being, you didn't think that wishing I would wake would work. As you told me you had woken from terror, I turned over drowsily crawling over you to embrace you with kisses and 'everything will be alrights.' When you started to shiver from my affections I knew that there were other reasons we both had stirred like this in the middle of the night. Our passion became heated, but I could smell the guilt on you. Something was wrong, something was the matter. We continued though until we both finished in each others' sweat and had inhaled enough of one-another's carbon dioxide to save thousands of trees. Only then did you tell me another had tasted who I wanted so badly to keep for my own for the rest of my life. Only then did you tell me you did me wrong in so many ways. Only then did you tell me that you no longer dreamed of me and you abandoned me. Just like everyone else. Just like you promised... That you never would.

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if you were items in a box you could never be boxers and old photos because you wear briefs and we never take pictures together and I love that. you haven't yet realized?. i don't need to separate you from everyone: two three four twenty six boys and girls that once loved me. do not ever be offended by the memories of them that i keep because the memories of them made me into the girl that you fell in love with. can you understand? you planted a whole *** of red carnations in my heart never dying from cold snow or too much rain you will never be an old heart bracelet because moon earrings will always stay in my ears you will never be a shoebox of letters because i keep yours under my pillow. you could never be a christmas box of tears because i could only ever cry into your chest. to put you in that box well, i couldn't. i can only think of our roadtrip and our laughter i could never put you in a box do you get it?

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Sep 13, 2011

Sep 13, 2011 at 11:42 PM UTC

michelle-reicks

how did you know?

if you were items in a box you could never be boxers and old photos because you wear briefs and we never take pictures together and I love that. you haven't yet realized?. i don't need to separate you from everyone: two three four twenty six boys and girls that once loved me. do not ever be offended by the memories of them that i keep because the memories of them made me into the girl that you fell in love with. can you understand? you planted a whole *** of red carnations in my heart never dying from cold snow or too much rain you will never be an old heart bracelet because moon earrings will always stay in my ears you will never be a shoebox of letters because i keep yours under my pillow. you could never be a christmas box of tears because i could only ever cry into your chest. to put you in that box well, i couldn't. i can only think of our roadtrip and our laughter i could never put you in a box do you get it?

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So what if I liked the sensation of your bare skin? Along with the lingering charisma you leave on my lips? And what if I found your briefs with a scent of infidelity and lavender on the bedside table? **Now, what if I murmured "I still love you." and under your boiling skin you smelt the truth run itself out of my shower drain?**

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Jul 7, 2014

Jul 7, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC

comical misunderstandings.

So what if I liked the sensation of your bare skin? Along with the lingering charisma you leave on my lips? And what if I found your briefs with a scent of infidelity and lavender on the bedside table? **Now, what if I murmured "I still love you." and under your boiling skin you smelt the truth run itself out of my shower drain?**

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