"buttoning" poems
Suddenly,
buttoning their jackets and making sure
their sleeves were straight and perfect
as the train quickly approached her stop
became more important than
anything she'd done.
Only child. Straight A's. Good athlete. Church choir;
But this suddenly was the most
important moment of her
life.
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 2:53 PM UTC
She whispered to me "Be good to me and I will be bad for you"
i smiled at her
generously it seemed
She blindfolded me
With scarf she has been wearing
She had her **** neck in my lips
I could feel it
The motion slowly increased
My hands were now tied
with the shirt she wore that night
She sat on me
giving me a little tease
Un buttoning the remaining
She had my mouth shut
I accepted her order
I felt dominated but
she was doing it better
I,on the other hand
Learning to catch her
That pace, that trick
She used on me to lure
How did she got it all, I wonder
every little joy she tenders
She was my first
I tried my best to hold her
I failed, she giggled
I could not see anything except for darkness
& her soul that loved me at very best
Every time she holds that thing of mine
I forgot every single dime, I paid her to be mine
Dec 20, 2014
Dec 20, 2014 at 11:24 AM UTC
Nostalgia
is a poor excuse
for ignorance
yet it pervades
with a tenacity
stemming from fabricated desire
for the smell of ****
we're told
is roses
and it's blasphemous
to question potential "isms"
lurking behind the veil
of Saturday morning cartoons
and black and white family sitcoms.
Yet by the time the sonic *** organs
have lain into us with repressed emotion,
the holy spirit has spilled its ***** in the dirt
to traverse onward floating apparition
out of the room and down the hall
closer towards progress.
and we are left reeling
stumbling into the hallway
buttoning our blouses
and yanking at our zippers
wondering what could cause
such great haste
and we follow blindly
in the wake of the first high
or we turn backwards
and plunge into fading bricolage
as a means to cope
with the rapid and fleeting ***********
of the electric eye
in its shape-shifting pylons and appendages
getting smaller in the naked eye
and gargantuan in the mind.
Clutching our *******
in great amorous heaves
of lust
or donning our father's clothes
in a mask of artifice
and enlightened cultural pretension.
Moaning for the days of youth a week ago,
the epoch squeezed in the space between thumbs,
looking for treasures in the trash
craving something tangible
in an increasingly intangible world.
The semblance of touch lost on a generation
who knows only of emotion through hieroglyphics
and never through direct sensation.
So we dig through the toy boxes
and leave Generation X puzzled
as we dig into their records
in Guns n Roses T-shirts
and high waisted jeans.
We're just looking for an immaculate conception of something palpable.
Oct 25, 2016
Oct 25, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
When I found the door
I found the vine leaves
speaking among themselves in abundant
whispers.
My presence made them
hush their green breath,
embarrassed, the way
humans stand up, buttoning their jackets,
acting as if they were leaving anyway, as if
the conversation had ended
just before you arrived.
I liked
the glimpse I had, though,
of their obscure
gestures. I liked the sound
of such private voices. Next time
I'll move like cautious sunlight, open
the door by fractions, eavesdrop
peacefully.
2.9k
The sun hides behind the clouds
but I see feet beneath those curtains
on a Sunday a girl with short hair and lesbianism smiles at me
You shouldn't mix plaid with stripes
that's like fashion 101
so I walked down the street
buttoning my plaid shirt up
when I fell down a man hole
and a mole man said to me
you shouldn't buy those Adidas shoes
they treat the workers horribly
so I took them off
and cut my naked feet on rust ladder rungs
I went to the top floor
they told my I shouldn't wear my jeans so creased
they scoffed at the words denim
so I took my pants off and made them into a sail
I went to the mirror
and it told me I should fit a size bigger
and that I should probably work out some more
I tore muscular and skeleton systems from the pages of biology text books
and used it for kindling
to warm my cold shoulders
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 3:58 PM UTC
I died yesterday, by my own hand,
And now here I am;
Standing like a ******* idiot in my kitchen,
And craving cornflakes.
The reasons why I did it seem hazy now;
All the buttoning and unbuttoning seemed to much,
Or else a love had left me,
And now I can't even grasp a bowl.
Stupid! That's what it is! Pure stupidity!
And I just want some ****** Crunchy Nut!
The bathrooms off-limits now;
It just makes me angry to see myself lying there,
No longer able to help anyone, least of all myself,
And that body didn't seem to care
About my cereal lust.
So here I am; staring at the cupboard,
But unable to open it,
and I don't even know if there's
any cereal left in the ****** thing anyway.
All those stupid myths about ghosts walking
Through walls was wrong apparently;
I'm just slowly fading away.
So here I am; craving cereal like a spoon.
The stupid spoon that I'm unable to grasp;
That seems to chortle, facelessly, at my attempts.
And being forever angry at that
Stupid idiot in the bathroom
For whom I feel nothing but contempt.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:44 PM UTC
No one told me
so i'm telling you
i expected grief to feel like sadness
but i wasnt told that
that it makes your whole body ache from morning until night
and even in your sleep
and that it makes your hands sting from numbness
making buttoning your jeans impossible
and that some days clumps of your hair fall out
but having a good hair day is the least of your worries
and morbid thoughts attack like being ***** slapped upside your head
hurting so bad you actually pass out in mid sen--
But it's nothing like the sadness i had expected to feel
i've known clinical depression since age 4
and that feeling of curling up in the fetal position
waving the white flag of surrender
trying to make yourself into the tiniest ball of nothing
But grief is a flammable substance
and you can feel it as it ignites the flame of your soul
it feels like being angry in a righteous way
like when jesus knocked over the flea market vendor's tables at the temple
like being so ****** off at all of the scales that are inbalanced
and it is the fuel that makes you want to correct the injustices of the world
and become larger than you are
and shower love compassion and truth over evil
no one told me that grief feels like this
so i'm telling you
Sep 26, 2013
Sep 26, 2013 at 3:46 PM UTC
"The best memories are like overplayed mixtapes: they lose clarity and detail over time, yet they seem to sound better the older they get."
We listen to the fourth round of Trois Gymnopedies
on our break from the second round of **********
Our limbs entwined, in part because we like it
partly because we're stuck together by sweat and--
The air is thick with scents foul and fragrant
as furniture music fills the gaps in between
Every breath stalls to anticipate the notes
fingers twitch slightly on the downbeat
Ten minutes ago, we made our own music
Ten minutes ago, we were in perfect harmony
She stares at the ceiling as I stare on her lips
I watch her mumble the lyrics Satie never wrote:
*A pack of cigarettes,
a pack of cigarettes
Could you please buy from the store?*
We're taken over by uncontrollable laughter
as uncontrollable as the trembling when we came
She shifts to her side, and my arms are freed
I stand and pick my jeans from the floor
I take my time buttoning up my shirt,
soaking in the view before I run the errand
She lies naked still, as I put a jacket on
I leave on the fifth round of the Gymnopedie
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
Walking up the rickety stairs,
Patchouli and cigarette smoke
combat for supremacy
Before I even reach the door,
and I step through to see
The everyday undead scattered on the thick carpet like so many corpses blown out of Wednesday Addams' haunted dollhouse.
Maybe it wasn't wise to come.
A cd player informs me that, indeed,
Bela Lugosi's dead,
And I cautiously move into the living room.
Ruby lips and ivory faces emerge from the gloom,
Incurious glances marking my progress
As an acolyte guides me to the Queen of the festivities
Holding court in a corner of the living room.
Her waist-length silver-gilt hair and damp skin like fresh camellias gleam in the candlelight,
A studded black goblet brimming with Jack Daniels
Is handed to her,
A token of homage she eagerly welcomes
while nodding me forward.
Whispers behind me tell her story,
Of how she's seen a thing or two in her time,
And why her flat stare and Theda Bara smile give glimpses of her bottomless occult wisdom.
As her slim fingers play with a knotted black necklace,
She considers me long before finally declaring,
--"My God, you're an old soul"--
And she pats the cushion next to her,
An invitation to drink deep and close of her dark knowledge.
A cup of something unknown is pressed into my hand
and I sip, hanging onto every arcane word she utters.
Night slowly fades into dawn
and I wake cold and stiff from a kitchen floor sleep
only to see the Queen buttoning the cuffs on her white poplin shirt.
Smoothing her tweed skirt, she steps into her pumps,
Grips her cup of coffee,
And with a cheery wave, leaves for work.
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 3:42 AM UTC
My mom got me a pair
of blue jeans
I never used to wear
Buttoning and zipping
was a pain
Then we got a dress code
And jeans
Only,
I could wear
But not blue
Too casual
And so they sat forgotten
...
Until a few years later
In a rush
I grabbed something
to wear
and it was
...
...
...
My blue jeans
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
i wish you could see him how i see him
in the early morning without my glasses
blurred around the edges
buttoning his shirt with eyes half-open
or with one hand on the steering wheel
focused mostly on the red light
but also on the garden caught
between the synapses in his mind
i wish you could see him how i see him
storm clouds tumbling in his eyes
also rolling overhead
and the mercury falls ten degrees
and the skies break and he pours out
and my cup runneth over
i wish you could see him how i see him
at once a child lost in the grocery store
and a king on horseback charging into battle
at once a boulder with moss on the north side
and a wet, ****** heart
i wish you could see him how i see him
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 12:14 PM UTC
today you asked me if i had a lighter
sorry, not in this jacket
i was never able to get you to let go of your cigarettes
you tried though, you got to 52 days! (or 54)
but that's fine, it's just a bad habit
i understand
but me
i don't know if i should consider these bad habits
not bad unless i act on them
whenever i see you i want to run into your arms
i want to kiss you, i want to make you smile, laugh
but i can't
*i quit those habits,
you made me quit*
we caught the same bus on the way to school
you sat right in front of me
started fixing your hat...
no, let me do it
i wanted so bad to reach out and fix it for you,
i know i couldn't.
i had to keep my fingers busy so i wouldn't reach out and help
tears came to my eyes, i wanted so badly to help, but you don't want me
then there was your hood!
lopsided, wrinkled, it wasn't right
i had to fix it, i didn't
these habits, i have to quit
we were in class
you sat in front of me again
then moved beside a friend
i turned around
i looked at your hair
oh no, i had to fix it
it was so messy
so... weird
so... different
so long
let
me
fix
it
i can't give it up
these habits came along 11 months ago
how do i quit something like this
how do i quit showing my love
soon enough maybe someone will come along and catch the same habits
buttoning your jackets, shirts, pants, fixing your hair, fixing your hood, hats, fixing your trucks on your skateboard, fixing your rough hands, fixing your nasty elbows, massaging you, someone will fix you.
i couldn't fix you as much as i tried,
i can't fix myself either.
but that's what was good about us, we were both messy and broken and we still kept on loving each other
then you left
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 3:12 PM UTC
shifty-eyed sundays/summer smiles.
green backyards child-full,
meat eaters meat-eating,
bellies & throats conversation/food-filled.
young families flocking fawn-eyed to communion barbeques,
sweaty raspings/of feeding minds;
living-room, reading-room, lessons & phonics
shortwinded swindlings at tables of breakfast (equal portions)
---sub-divided.
categories..elements
systems of classifying,
lessons limping/near succeeding.
trekking inglorious [tired] track laps---round laps of track,
tried feet feet-walking
sleep-talking
waking, taking rests.
@ intervals,
(splashes of time) clock/clock-time.
sleep, repose, health profits;
restless prophets. word-of-mouth.
strange tongues, th'creaking of breaths,
classical forebodings---brow beating, war breeding.
wrist flickings/blurred strokes
markings/carvings---letters/numb3rs,
communicating---language speaking.
(overhearing.)
positive consensus
> press play.
un-buttoning buttons
soirée is overfinished, overture.
shirts come up/over/off---
bath's running---taps run-running,
clippings clipped from papers,
---snip-snipping.
crashing/slicing blades of scissors,
point-on-point.
television evening sign-off/lights off.
interestingopenwindowenergy,
an elegy..
under_scored.
Oct 27, 2011
Oct 27, 2011 at 9:20 PM UTC
Don’t stand beside my grave crying. Walk away.
Wipe away those tears from your eyes.
I will always be near, I am here to stay.
Wherever you go I’ll hear your cries.
You will keep my memory alive,
For what your brain can’t, your heart will,
And it’s there that my spirit will thrive,
For after eternity I’ll be with you still.
In the morning when you open your eyes,
I will be beside you, buttoning my shirt.
When you gaze up at the starry night skies,
I’ll be gazing back until it doesn’t hurt.
When the soft snow is fresh and it’s too cold,
I will be beside you, keeping you warm.
When the rain is strong and umbrella old,
I will be there, helping you ride the storm.
Never stand by my grave crying.
For I never liked it when you cried,
And when I was in my bed, dying,
It was you that never left my side,
And because you kept my memory breathing,
I will never be there, because I never died.
Feb 20, 2011
Feb 20, 2011 at 2:40 AM UTC
She judges the men,
unbuttoning, buttoning –
and she keeps looking.
Oct 4, 2019
Oct 4, 2019 at 3:32 AM UTC
We talked about the dance,
she said. Is that all? Yes,
well she did mention that
her man was late home
from work sometimes
and she misses him
before she has to leave
for the dance show,
but that's all. I see,
Fred said. Nellie looked
at him, brushed her hair.
Her dancing is faltering,
Nellie said. As if she
had other things on her
mind. What other things?
he asked. How do I know?
She didn't say. Unless she
thinks her man is cheating
on her? Do you think he is?
Fred said. He's the type who
would, Nellie said. What's
the type who would? I don't
know, but you can tell, there's
something about him gives
me the creeps. Women's
intuition? he said. You could
say that, she said. How comes
she doesn't have that intuition,
too? Fred said. She's in love with
him, love blinds, she said.
What are you dancing, tonight?
he asked. Swam Lake, she said.
She finished brushing her hair
and poured him a scotch and ice
and prepared to leave. He watched
her as she put on her coat, her
fingers buttoning up, her eyes
watching her hands in action,
her tongue poking over her
lower lip. He lifted his glass
of scotch, studied her ankles,
and had a long slow sip.
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 2:48 AM UTC
I don't understand you, boy,
with your billy goat beard and
fishing pole. Munching on that raw ear
of corn, as if proud of that haul
of laundry, you just reeled in
at your feet. The trench coat you are
buttoning is making everyone nervous,
but I am more curious. How did you
find yourself in this city? On this
train? And how can you look, so
confident, when you are so, out
of place? I envy you, boy.
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 9:35 PM UTC
A feeling of cold leaves my body
Flowing away as I step to the counter
Just an extra large English Toffee please
Quick, something warm!
Sure, it might not be that cold outside
But I still need my morning hit
Of that sweet shit-coloured liquid
We've all come to call coffee
Could I get a refill?
Guy behind the counter just stares incredulously
At me, the customer no less
Caffeine doesn't jitter me
Cool wisps of steam rising from the cup
And the sweet aromatic scent however,
Jolts more shivers up my spine
Than any lover could
If you could choose any object to marry
Pick coffee right away, wouldn't you?
Don't get me wrong, I'd love going down on that
But we shouldn't have to pay for love
Having to gingerly leave it on the counter
Nothing sadder to look at but an empty cup
Buttoning up your jacket
Stepping outside
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 6:38 PM UTC
Buttoning his red jacket,
the lights of his apartment,
all burnt out,
his tiny plastic radio,
statically oozes a sad long performance,
of something incredible,
something that hurts the spine,
and makes him,
sit down on the floor,
His window is dark,
though the sun,
may come up any moment,
passionately exposing it self,
over tall romantic brick downtown city buildings,
made of something too incredible,
to paint,
There is a sound,
there is a love,
there is a death,
there is a dog,
a ***** who never loved,
and her High heeled Stiletto Siren Song Shoes,
are immortal,
close enough to the grave yard,
where her mother was buried 100 times ago,
I pray,
I dip my tongue in a Vinegar burn,
There are no
Decembers
There is no,
Crimson Highlight of dawn,
His mind is an old Blue car,
stuck in R,
a drunk driver,
Taxi-ing Tourists to hell,
Nevada crumbles like old make up on a woman’s,
tired face,
how long
will a kiss last,
as the sun,
breathes down your neck,
how long,
will beauty last,
standing ****
in winter,
Barely starving.
I am forged Dream Catcher,
I am prosthetic limb,
holding onto a false Diamond,
Rhyming Georgia's Orange enveloped letter,
never to be returned,
never to be read,
never to be painted Green,
like the personification Mortality
or a strand
of her Night Rose hair,
still in a drawer,
next to a broken lighter.
Feb 5, 2013
Feb 5, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
For Rodney, whose light never seizes to shine.
middle fingers up, middle fingers up - put your fists up!
The Black Blazers;
they march and trot over,
the heart of the city.
Like seasoned veterans of war.
Unknowingly striking,
as they would on a gruesome battle field.
Buttoning their starch-pressed white shirts,
at the break of dawn,
like soldiers with bullet proof vests.
With the hope of becoming the hero at work,
even if its just for the day.
Elaborately folding their carvats,
some wonder,
'Do we really need to leave?'
Looking at their love,
in deep slumber with a hint of a smile on their face.
They take one glance at the mirror,
never looking back,
they go off to protect,
they go off to war.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 11:25 PM UTC
Looking around the room
Buttoning your jacket tight
Feeling the frustration in your palms
As you try to write,
Is the same as it is in life,
Clawing at the brick walls
With your delicate fingers
Hoping to find a way out
And you bleed and cry
An aching body is all you own
The room is dancing a waltz
Not much you can do
Then, the air becomes thin
A loud airplane flies over your head
The only thing you can do
Is just walk through it
Hoping it survives on the other end
Your only tool?
Is remembering everything
You have taught yourself up till now
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 4:06 PM UTC
My tears fill the well that was designed for them.
Soon traveling down my cheeks and chin.
As creeks or streams might allow a mountain's rainy day runoff,
To gently pass over stone.
Triggered by a scent, a sound, a thought,
A dagger like sting from a memory of,
What could have been.
Perhaps the fearful gaze upon a future
That may lay ahead.
And so they fall.
Dying my eyes red.
In silence, I try to gather my thoughts,
Odd for someone whose thoughts
Placed him in this predicament
And as I stack them.
Neatly. I might add.
The breeze of your memory knocks them to the floor.
Again.
Because this has happened before.
You have done this to me once again.
This time your presence wasn't even necessary.
To cause this cascade of solemnity.
But I realize that sadness,
Isn't what I endure.
Rather reflection,
Similar to the one emerging on the countertop,
Under my chin
That grows with every drip and drop,
Grants that sadness has left me,
But each memory's searing pain
Doses me with lonely regret of squandered opportunity.
Which stabs at my heart.
The dripping soon subsides,
And with face stained scarlet.
I wipe away the remnants
Of my rainfall.
From face and counter.
And prepare the shielded smile.
That has protected me,
Since you left.
I prepare my next joke
Buttoning it from intro to punchline
Hoping that it garners a laugh.
So that, even if vicariously,
I can smile.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
I started
buttoning
my clothes,
hugging them
as though
cold.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 6:22 PM UTC
There she sits:
adorned in pearls,
her black curls, laughing.
The women, envious.
The men, entranced.
Her image,
stained in red.
There she kneels:
her master, leaving;
his hand sore,
her face weaker.
He leaves.
His fist,
stained in red.
There she lays:
another day's work, finished.
The man, buttoning his shirt.
Enters his wife
screaming away passion.
Their life together,
stained in red.
There she weeps:
the troubles of the world,
****** onto her shoulders.
She is *****
unwanted by all.
A once beautiful creature.
The harlot,
stained in red.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 11:24 PM UTC