"camisoles" poems
The Sight of Black Stockings on Pale white Legs
Framing and showing off the Thigh, That Begs
Softly to be touched, in gentle Admiration
Women in Silk, Lace, and Satin for Excitation
Camisoles of Lace, Garters and Penoirs
Corsets Laced up, and Short Babydolls
*Lace Demi Cup Bras, with ******* Adorned*
Without the Pleasure of this, life is Forlorn
*There is a Certain ****** Passion*
For these Fine Lingerie Fashions
Lust and Loved for Centuries
*It Brings forth ***** Sensuality*
Curve and Crevices tease the Eyes
Releasing ever Passionete Sighs
Until Entwined they Finally Find
The unyeildings of Motions Devine
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
sunshine seeps through blue dresses
and laughing echoes via open windows
with rays on my shoulders
and caresses on my nose.
splashes of rainwater glisten in the sun
with camisoles and lingerie above.
fulfilling stances of smiles and buoyancy
as i sway in my mary janes.
my snow-white blouse feels loose.
i inhale with ease
as the humidity offers a veil
over my bare shoulders.
the bitter moon has inched over
the prospect; the blue skies
have twisted and crooked to black.
dust lynches off disgusting, damp garments.
the moon hits the violet vests,
and cries are blocked by closed doors.
there is artificial light on my skeleton
and slaps printed across my face.
this deceitful place.
with obscure deceptions on every corner.
this circle of life really is bittersweet.
day is kind and night is not.
when the gangsters come out.
when mommy and daddy aren’t so ecstatic.
when brooklyn is authentic.
and your snow-white blouse feels tight.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
So down, I'm drinking coffee grounds
to stay up. Pieces of bark in my
cup like a tired dog running on half-
woofs. Half & Half fizzles, sizzles
West Coast Folgers corporate doorstep.
Step lightly / hardwood floorboards.
Each creak, each door hinge "hello" couldn't
make me go. Fetch me the paper, some
poetry, a pen and a pad to write on.
To feel right on.
Lines so loose that delicates / zip-ups /
camisoles lie on the hillside
trying to poke the clouds, pop 'em,
with their tags. 100% cottonpoly-
estersilkrayon blend. Pure blend,
breakfast blend. The mug I stole
from the caf 'cause they steal from
me. Thousands of dollars every semester
for Cheerios everyday. Cholesterol doesn't
matter to me. Not because I don't care,
but because I've lowered the good kind, too.
So low, so low, the parking garage elevator
girls can't pick me up. So low on morale,
my textbook battalion would rather shut
me out.
So low that I'd let them.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 3:39 PM UTC
Swallow and go. Something I can do, like pace myself or ********** You ask me what I write about. I say
famous people, and discrepancies.
Simulate applying mascara. Stainless steel reflections play tennis better than I ever could. [Yesterday] I read something that intibated me,
preformed a lobotomy without a drill.
I had a dream that I forgot my work shirt at a friends house and ran through downtown bare chested to see it serve as a shroud for the most recent saginaw st ******
At the bottom of a heartbeat you explain the grandfather paradox to me. Why wouldn't I go back and shoot the man who ***** my mother? I could have been a time capsule; could have been a light saber,
could have been a different poet who wears a lot of tank tops but calls them camisoles. Late at night my
boyfriend is more treasure chest than in the afternoon, his drunk, swollen face hooked and dark like his indian mothers.
I tell him I am unfaithful every day at three, in the afternoon when he visits the crows nest to regurgitate tequila and recyclable fibers. I wear camisoles that I call tank tops; let some neighbor feel me up over a periwinkle floral pattern when I was trying to change my life. We then shared an avocado sandwich and
peddled the fattest grams on the east side.
Dec 29, 2014
Dec 29, 2014 at 4:34 PM UTC
The slow serpentine hop became circles
rapidly by two rabbits chasing, dressed in
their light brown summer fur camisoles,
territory owned was defended by a win,
give up ground was to give up food and
the right to eat there to your fill, on demand.
Shadows played tricks
thorny hedgerow caused
****** in the skin, drawing
blood, as the chase
went outside a steel
wire fence, into where the
warren was, and
coyotes crouched
ready in wait too.
Some days nobody wins,
over some green greed.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
At the bizarre bazaar a dark star was born
In the Stark night its spark put out the light
of other white stars and
beneath the brooding sky strange shadows danced
dressed in their finest black lace,
from the grave in brocaded camisoles
they blazed a trail and set sail for the dark star.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 11:01 PM UTC
To
see past what could be,
break the link
float free and think beyond the cast of spells or runes,
In his many mansions, there are as many rooms unfed by light.
I believe the house was full last night,
party time they always have a party line,
be good, be strong, be half as wise as the
day is long and that gets you into
Paradise.
Sunday
makes me think of camisoles and mothballs, ham and pickle for tea and grandma, ( the old victorian ) kissing me.
It's hard to break a mould when you take as the truth what you're constantly being told, but I try.
I'll never meet
Churchill now
until
much later.
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 4:42 AM UTC