"buttoned" poems
1
The other day I saw a picture of you.
Shirt buttoned up to your throat,
Pants cutting off the blood circulation in your pelvis,
Shoes shining brighter than the north star,
And a smile being pulled across your cheeks
Like an archer pulling a bow string.
I smiled back at my computer screen.
2
I’ve listened to this album at least 30 times.
I own three versions of it.
UK deluxe, US deluxe, Target Deluxe.
Everything about you is deluxe.
Your eyes, your voice, your breath
As it passes through the microphone and into my ears.
3
I believe in fate
But not so much in destiny.
I don’t scream at my reflection anymore
And I’m described as independent.
For the most part.
I’m a pretty trustworthy person
And I promise I’m not that desperate.
4
The music ripples through my veins
As I whip my curls at the mirror.
The hairbrush pressed against my mouth
And I repeat the lyrics that roll past your lips so smoothly.
5
I can almost feel your arms
Wrap around my waist before I go to sleep.
I had a dream
You and I were together
And you were happy
And I was happy
And everyone was happy.
But I know if my dream became reality
No one would be happy.
Jealousy would taint the spit on other girls’ tongues
And the distance between
New Jersey and Australia is too much.
Even for me.
5
I can almost feel your arms
Wrap around my waist before I got to sleep.
5
I can almost feel you.
5
We have the same eye color.
6
We have the same hair color.
7
I am just an insecure girl.
You are taking over the world.
You are stepping in the soil of every state.
And you won’t look at me
Longer for three seconds in the New York City heat.
8
I never thought I would be one of those girls.
One of those girls
Who latch onto a boy’s identity,
Not knowing his soul
But knowing his spirit.
I’ve seen you three times.
You don’t even realize.
I try too hard and I’m convinced you notice this.
9
You are nine months older than me.
In your eyes I am just a baby.
My cocoon of pictures of you is the womb
I am being baked in.
You won’t follow me back on twitter.
10
You are just my celebrity crush
But you have such an impact on me.
Go back home.
Let me rest.
Go back to bed.
I’ll have that dream again
And I won’t speak of it
And no one has to know of this
Pathetic excuse for love I carry in me like a dead fetus.
10
You are just my celebrity crush.
It was never supposed to go this far.
10
You are just my celebrity crush.
10
You can never love me
The same way I love you.
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 1:59 AM UTC
Black blueberries buttoned by *****
Black blueberries buttoned by *****
This wasn't yours to loose
Nothing was yours to loose
Black blueberries backed by bench men
Bench men that sit on side lines
Thinking
When will the golden moment be
To break through; proving themselves
Worthy of the benched boxes they be in
Everyday
Because
They believe in benevolence
Black blueberries busting through my *****
Black blueberries busting through my *****
Better than bullets
Better than bullets
Better than bombs and turrets
Better than ballistic knifes and skillets
And arsenals of ignorance bettered with bills
Bills I pay to ensure my life is ready to die
Is it a matter of our collective thoughts?
Those black blueberries are buried
And not because I am becoming a black blueberry I say this
But because life begins with black blueberries
Who all turn into nothing but pale *****
All conformed
Not to natural laws
But to the cognitive bacterial infection
Called education
Turning us to blue blueberries
Blue blueberries
And grand building bannered with ********
Black blueberries are bored
Black blueberries are right
Black blueberries are always right…
Apr 30, 2013
Apr 30, 2013 at 1:27 PM UTC
A visit was due.
It had been a while since our last one.
I buttoned up my coat,
for winter had come.
The walk was short,
my father at the lead.
He held the bouquet and cake
and he moved with speed.
We came together to celebrate,
Each of us bringing something to the feast.
It was her day.
Yet he sat in his seat, uncaring at the least.
I had to be civil,
so I walked on in,
and shook his hand,
I wished him well, though I think I lied. Was it a sin?
No, then I realised I meant it.
Not for him, but for her,
to ease her worries and cares,
because I cared for her, she was my grandmother.
The room was full.
We were together as planned.
The fire blazed.
Cake in our hands.
Her favourite show came on,
but he called for a change as his attention drifted.
It was her day, I thought,
and she deserved to do what she wanted, to do something different.
It was getting late,
and he wanted to go and rest.
But as she helped him up, he produced something,
A necklace of silver, pure and brilliant, and whispered, ''You're the best''.
Then as he exited the room,
I wished him well once again.
He nodded.
I nodded back with love this time, not disdain.
I realised then they were from a different age,
An age of hidden emotion,
but it was theirs,
and they loved each other through the quiet and the unwanted commotion.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 1:21 PM UTC
Ecstasy mire in its own sorrow,
As if a ghost makes love to its shade.
The wooden door merely holds the knock;
Instead it punches out within the walls,
Dispersed as if a blow of clay.
There the sound hauls up a craft:
Foul of the wooden scent.
Just as it intertwines with cloisters,
The curves are lined into a silhouette.
The mountainous fogs are sharpened,
The apex is buttoned and round.
The matter it is that shapes the core:
The mere marriage of soul and dust.
How a flesh can tease its craft,
As it gnaws on a clavicle(?)
The ghost sips on a river,
As if making love to its shade.
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 4:59 AM UTC
Keep your nose to the grindstone
echo and boom.
Tucked in shirt and buttoned blue collars.
Coffee, no milk, no sugar.
Pagans in a pageant
lifting slabs with slack hands.
Old muscles knotted and torn
a drone sound, stillborn as the childless playground.
Mocking and mundane
the bell rings and shatters the silence
leaving tools on the floor and empty parking spaces.
Nothing left but the weep of pigeons in the rafters
and the breeze that arrives
only after the workers departure.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 6:18 AM UTC
Who still remembers how he looks like?
No, it's his cousin who's always in red,
asking everyone to keep calm, and...
He still keeps silent in spite of the fact
that he's fading away in our mind.
(A dangling strand of curly hair
a buttoned up, and earrings which never come at a pair.)
Either traffic or time washes him away,
as no one has ever noticed now his shadow under the sunset
is even longer than the toss-and-turn we once had at nights.
He’s the only one who will be quiet when listening to others
but we just snub/phubs him, and keep passing by.
Jul 31, 2018
Jul 31, 2018 at 11:32 AM UTC
We wore torn blue jeans,
the holier the better,
pearl-buttoned shirts
& pointed Justin's
rounded out
our tough-guy
wardrobe.
We guzzled whiskey
& Crown
& told most folks
to kiss our *****
even the coppers.
The pretty lasses loved us
& some had bigger ***** than us,
they tried to capture our hearts
& make real men out of us.
Sometimes
they succeeded
& sadly,
sometimes not,
our common sense
clouded
by alcohol-laced
testosterone.
I lost a lot of precious time
trying to be cool.
Jun 26, 2014
Jun 26, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
How I long
to unbutton you,
Lady, to slowly
peel off the layers
of your being
and feel you,
body and soul,
naked and true,
beneath my
exploring hands,
touching the core
of who you
really are,
there where
you are hidden
beneath it all.
I think, Lady,
you have
been buttoned
against the world
too, too long.
Open the inside
to the outside.
Take a chance.
A world at bay
is no world at all.
Nothing of value
can be learned
at a distance.
Direct my fingers;
they are willing
if you are.
Bare hands,
bare hearts,
bare bodies:
to open,
always better
than to close.
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
She reads Neil Gaimen
by the light through the window,
a facing forward seat on the only train in Greater Anglia
without any heat,
yet still she peruses the pages with
a flick and a ****** and her eyes begin to wander
in marvellous repeating horizontal lines.
She is blonde and reading Neil Gaimen.
Another blonde another book,
this time Mr King under her palm,
spread like her great legs, wide
and easy to read, yet not easily led;
telephone-line straight eyes
on a north country face,
buttoned up below her is a white blouse,
lace-trimming hiding last night’s pudding-
cake baked by a daughter, I heard her conversation earlier:
there was laughter.
She is blonde and reading Stephen King.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 3:48 PM UTC
Evenings were sandwich time
brought in by big Ted
sandwiches cut in triangles
in white and brown
and he laid the plates down
on the center table
and the patients
bored out
of their fragile brains
pounced upon them
and ate ravishingly
as if time
was running out
to eat
but
Yiska nibbled hers
took small bites
her finger tips
holding the brown bread
her white teeth
nibbling gently
Naaman watched her
his sandwich held
but uneaten
smelt
viewed
but held away
from lips
he took in
Yiska's nibbling
the way her fingers
held as if a holy host
not fish paste
and her lips
parted just so
her tongue seen
the white teeth
and her eyes
unfocused
her nightgown
buttoned at the breast
with a missing button
and he wanted
to be that sandwich
in her fingers
wanted her lips
to feel him
her teeth to nibble him
but then
the foreign woman
distracted him
by taking
her sandwich apart
opening it
between fingers
sniffing the contents
******** up her nose
muttering something
in her foreign tongue
throwing it on the plate
and picking up another
don't waste them
a nurse said
ask if you don't see
what you want
the foreign woman
chewed on the sandwich
she'd picked
the nurse removed
the torn open sandwich
Naaman ate
a small portion
viewing Yiska meanwhile
licking her fingers
******* the ends
in and out
and he wished
it he she was doing thus
he looked away
the evening sky
was darkening
through the locked
ward windows
the bright electric lights
above their heads
made mirrors
of the windows
and Naaman saw himself
in his blue dressing gown
sans belt in case
he tried to string
himself again
and he gazed at Yiska
once more nibbling
another sandwich
the same *********
technique
the similar lipping
routine
and the missing button
on her nightgown
revealed a small portion
of flesh viewed
her small *******
pressing the cotton cloth
of the nightgown
and he ate unceremoniously
the last of his bread
watching her fingers
licked again
while outside the window
the sound of fresh rain.
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 3:40 AM UTC
Alright,
I'm standing
in a rain soaked field
looking due North at the
stacked glorious nothing.
And the vapid brands that
stamped and covered these walls
are an echo of their vibrant
former hues.
The people drive round
and down trying to get
to their brown house maybe.
The parking lots are planar
grey graves, commemorating
the former lives of the
ghosts of shopping malls past
dying ghosts of shopping malls past.
Right on, I'm
walking through the Holocaust
memorial with my coat buttoned
to my throat. The dying lights of
the Sharper Image really makes
a mockery of what they left.
There is the shell of a Banana Republic.
There's Old Navy, Gamestop, Footlocker
Shoes. This is the food court where I hit
on that girl who ended up being as
forgettable as a food court meal.
Okay,
now I'm
looking out just one mile south at the
excavators pushing the dirt and the rock
Digging into land bought by the City,
to build up a new store or twenty
This new real estate is assured to
bring "vibrancy" to our local economy.
Those old stores aren't the right location
so let's just leave, they never existed and
a single family of mallards swim is
circles in Yorkshire Lake. Calmly watching
as the engines get closer, not really expecting
their time is over to bring in the future of
the ghosts of shopping malls past.
Another ghost of shopping malls past.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC
Anne and I were walking
down in the country
when we saw a lake
and a frog at its edge
“Ladies,” it croaked
*“Will one of you give me a kiss? –
I was a fantastic saxophone player
and a country witch turned me
into a green frog”*
I knelt down and picked up the frog
and threw him in my pocket
and buttoned up
so the creature couldn’t escape
and I resumed walking
“Sue,” said Anne to me
*“Are you nuts?
The frog said it’ll turn
into a fantastic saxophone player -
so why don’t you or I kiss it?”*
“Anne,” I replied,
*“it’s you who's nuts
We’d make more money
with a talking frog anytime
than with a saxophone dummy”*
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 5:06 AM UTC
I wandered the hallways
I drank my coffee
I drank your water
I bought a record
I buttoned my shirt
I unbuttoned my pants
I cracked my bones
I cracked a window
I turned off
I turned on
I washed the dishes
I washed my face
I washed my hands
I cut my arm
I cut class
I cut off
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 12:58 AM UTC
Thomas, Tommy baby,
you are both hot,
and sweet.
Tom Cat you’re red hot--
when I catch you in your Tom Cat Strut,
sauntering across campus,
strolling like it ain’t no thing,
cuz it don’t meant a thing
if it ain’t got that swing baby.
So dig this, Tommy Gun,
you groove with the best of ‘em
when I spot you strollin’—
Your head, teetering left and right like a seesaw, boppin’ baby,
arms hangin’ loosely, swinging freely, wildly, go! go!
legs scooping forward in boisterous trombone slides--
Groooooove Tommy baby!
You’re Louis’s best blows--
ten feet from the mic and the Fives baby,
you’re hot, red hot,
any closer and I'll burn up!
Go!
But you’re cool, real cool,
and oh so sweet.
Super sweet--
in your beard like a pepper and salt shaker tossed across the table,
I look to see those rosy lips part,
and peep those pearly whites shinin' like the bell of Louis’s cornet
brandished in the air, under those ballroom lights--
you’re screamin’ Tommy!
Let me hear that laugh that shakes the room,
punches like Blakey’s bass drum,
thumps like Mingus--
T-Bird you’ve got that hard bop in your soul,
you’re gonna bop to the top TB,
into the third heaven where the angels fall in line to your swing,
that incessant strut that keeps the devil at bay,
Blow! Blow! Blow!
And I see you now Tom Cat,
up there in the clouds,
digging your way across eternity,
bopping and jiving, swinging and blowing,
in your faded khaki pants and worn tennis shoes,
loosely buttoned collared shirt,
tight rectangular glasses that glistened the bell of your eyes even more--
I gotta stand twenty feet away Tommy baby!
You glance down at me and wink,
rearing your head back to let loose that Mingus and Blakey
bottom-end laugh,
guffaw guffaw guffaw!!!
--so hearty and rich,
the backbone of every nervous first-year classroom,
and the sniggering seniors you continued to befuddle and dazzle
with your mysterious ways
and insatiable swing.
So blow, Tommy Gun, blow!
Go Tom Cat go!
Dig T-Bird dig!
Let loose Tommy boy!
Swing for us, swing swing swing--
Hot and Sweet, Tommy baby,
hot and sweet.
Jun 22, 2016
Jun 22, 2016 at 1:55 AM UTC
607
Of nearness to her sundered Things
The Soul has special times—
When Dimness—looks the Oddity—
Distinctness—easy—seems—
The Shapes we buried, dwell about,
Familiar, in the Rooms—
Untarnished by the Sepulchre,
The Mouldering Playmate comes—
In just the Jacket that he wore—
Long buttoned in the Mold
Since we—old mornings, Children—played—
Divided—by a world—
The Grave yields back her Robberies—
The Years, our pilfered Things—
Bright Knots of Apparitions
Salute us, with their wings—
As we—it were—that perished—
Themself—had just remained till we rejoin them—
And ’twas they, and not ourself
That mourned.
2.1k
trembling, she buttoned up each catch to hide the melody burned into her skin
my ramona
set free too long ago
a song sent to be heard only in twilight
your face has new lines — none of which sing
these are straighter, without rhythm
you have been reconstructed into a sketch
a new art claims your body
a new artist claims your body
why do you let your canvas have such a possessive audience?
beauty leaks from your ballads
you are not a pen stroke
my ramona
a.m.
Aug 8, 2017
Aug 8, 2017 at 3:08 AM UTC
tickity-clickity whirr went my father to set
the little merry-go-round musicbox by my bed
with its adorbsable mini-suction cups lining
purple porcelain tentacles
winding round and round
lulling gently with that nostalgic ice-cream truck tune
reminding me of sweet tang juicy mango slush
on a hot afternoon
where the posh-painted ponies fly by with the tide rising up and down
in a seaside villa of some spanish town
in all the grandness of their primary colors so carefully chosen to brush
at the command of a fairy princess with her crown gold-gilded
she's twirling whirling, a mechanical ballerina on springs
gracefully petite her frame, so small the sash on her shoulder
that slips in the breeze to catch the eye of a little soldier
in his regimentals properly fitted, buttoned in brass
a lass like me lovingly adoring bunnies in top hats and bow ties
spats on their feet to tap dance for me
in my dreams the never ending spin of a teacup party
the catch of a hook where the lullaby loses flight
but I'm already asleep with a kiss goodnight
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 5:28 PM UTC
the transparency of
running water
over stone
is too much
for me to bear
i dropped my identity
into the water
and let it become
a stone
and as the mud
and ash and dirt
washed away
i saw far too clearly
what i had neglected
and the cracks
in sincerity
and i bound
my heart
and ribs
and tongue
in a tight pair of pantyhose
but it stopped my breath
and made me ache
in a way
i never knew
was possible
when i
got my breath back
i cried
with the realization
that
i should have never
started again
if i wanted
to be perfect
so i stepped
on the wildflowers
of renewal,
buttoned up my collar,
and slept in the rain
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
i open the front door & a small
man with his shirt buttoned all
the way up asks me if i'd like to
buy a pocket bible, so i can
worship wherever i go. i ask if i
can fit it in a flask & if it's okay
to take with whiskey. his eyelids
shut like a casket as he touches
his forehead, chest, right shoulder
then left shoulder. tells me i'm
going to hell. i crawl back
onto my bar stool and drink from
the ceramic mug you glued back
together the night you saw my face
and pictured a room full of soft
things shattering. i can hear the
sound of a train & it's such a shame
that the nearest railroad is under
construction. it's such a shame that
the floor of my mind is set up like
a child's playroom with plastic
train tracks set in the center & a
younger version of myself is sitting
in front of them playing with a
replica of the train my whole body
was begging to be kissed by.
ugh, kissing. my god. i'm so high.
kiss me in my death spot, the
spot that'll be where my life ends.
replace my train tracks with
a dollhouse. tell the soft things
that i love them. open my front door,
tell the small man to unbutton his
shirt, that not everyone buys
pants with pockets in them.
wake me up when i'm sober &
tell me to write an ending to this.
i cannot think of an ending. please
don't let me become it
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
To my mom-
I remember that day,
I was so little
The horizon went on forever
when we walked down a sidewalk
to the nearby cemetery. (not a sad place)
With grass crunchy
And a blanket picnic.
I told you about giraffes-
under the hot sun,
in the blouse you had buttoned.
Or that other time-
searching for a new house,
way far up in Maine.
Driving home on the highway
we sang and
there was nothing terrifying to tell.
The lights shone- passing cars-
that world was ignorant (bliss)
I told you simply
How joy felt. That moment.
You smiled.
There’s this dim memory
Water slapping against
The old boat’s hull,
your comfortable song-
the lullaby.
(I sing it,
to myself now
when I can’t sleep.)
We went together-
countless doctor’s appointments.
You held my hand
and wished I was okay-
when I wasn’t
This new you,
I see it every day.
And I hope that some time
I will walk through the door
to a hug and a kiss,
and my mommy will be back.
Because I am all alone
without her here.
And I miss her
more than anything.
You had promised
To set me free.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 9:47 PM UTC
Dear dead Victoria
Rotted cosily;
In excelsis gloria,
And R. I. P.
And her shroud was buttoned neat,
And her bones were clean and round,
And her soul was at her feet
Like a bishop's marble hound.
Albert lay a-drying,
Lavishly arrayed,
With his soul out flying
Where his heart had stayed.
And there's some could tell you what land
His spirit walks serene
(But I've heard them say in Scotland
It's never been seen).
1.7k
I am king appointed by God and the sun is my trampoline work of artistry, the sun is my private stock color, the moon is my faithful broken stallion in the sky, my own sundown I capture blue clouds with silver chains mixed with gold, I make steady the day with wind gusts of playing leaves running and hiding, the day is my sweet, sassy song of joy to God , the world is mountain tall waiting to be climbed, the world is my many colored coat designed with rainbows, stars, sunshine, clouds, trees, grass, shy, trees, worn buttoned yet loose, the world is a painting on my wall of my house
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 2:18 PM UTC
a blue flower
a runner's shoe
a sun that's shining
a ride that's new
a person laughing
a cat in the window
a melody rising
a happy widow
a twisted drum
a soft goodbye
a pretty face
a peaceful sigh
a libra calling
a buttoned shirt
a crab with claws
a cut that hurt
a white smile
a bullet punch
a hiked up skirt
a snack to munch
a disco sound
a plant that's green
a piece of paper
a ballet scene
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 12:18 PM UTC
this being
dedicated to wicked woman hiding cold eyes
behind overlarge sunglasses;
sporting blackest velvet dress coat firmly buttoned smoking
long, cruel cigarette lit from glare off your cartier-replete wrist
as hordes of men in line to perhaps hold your parasol
while you read tedious course material are turned away
by singular lazy wave of the unsympathetic hand,
ashes falling & cherry red nail polish flaming across
the patio panorama like hellfire;
with hard, rangy body and cut-to-shoulders
blonde curtain to hide behind, safe upon your wicker throne;
wary of males & their hidden, bursting sexes.
Sep 23, 2012
Sep 23, 2012 at 2:03 PM UTC