"cinched" poems
Before leaving,
Pen a poem,
Script a story,
Produce a pyramid,
Manage a milestone,
Fix a fence,
Pose for a picture,
Build a boat.
I'll remember you,
Not to worry.
You'd remember me too.
But images of walls
Brain splattered,
***** on your face,
Cinched belt, alone, or
With needle
Will certainly work too,
But for the wrong reasons.
That's why King Hamlet
Had to return and ask:
“Remember me.”
He was looking for
Understanding,
And we know how that
Ended.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 8:21 AM UTC
kisses on your warm sweet mouth
tender lips caressed
exploring your ******* and raised ******* ..
belly and thighs enveloped
those eager dark delicious places that i covet so
your musk erogenous
the path to your hungry soul
eater of the poison apple
your eyes widen bright with delight
a strange synesthesia you say
your smile a hypnotic alter
you prone
back arched
belly willing
as i drag a curved blade slowly across your winsome flesh
worshiping you
breathing your warm breath into my mouth and nostrils
come now
you coo
i am sheildless
then little strangles that excite
to see how you do
will you love it
adorations twisted mind
she demon
a wizened dizzy Venus
please yes
her **** drenches the bed
a warm viscosity
legs widen
feet piqued
*****
exotic delicatessen
Heralded
i enter with long sweet butter strokes
the sabbath of desire
I swear
i wont let you suffer...
never !
why you say?
because i love you
lovely scythe you call
as if lulled to sleep
whispering dreadful incantations .
i ache to close the curtain
to lifes scalding chatter
wrap me
in a raggy shawl
impale the throat
like ive alway dreamed
a last exhalation
flood gates pour forth
as deaths dark fold
dissolves all
i rock you drugged
absinthe and wormwood
a last ***** of candles flame
white gauze cinched
lips on a lost mouth
eyes a static pyre
i linger
wishing you still plush
an animated glow
so that i could feel your arms,
now milky white relics
only to take you all over again and again and again
dreamer of the abyss
yet you stand
aberrations, smoke ghost
sacrificially swaying your hips
calling from Hades
dancer of ritual copulation
i melt like wax in the sun
wither
and die myself
marriage Italian style
dead bells in love
blotted out by the Sirens of Mara
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC
Diaphanous silk skirts glide gracefully around tiny ankles attached to perfect legs.
And the string quartet plays in the background.
Strong hands encircle a tightly cinched waste
And breath brushes against a neck.
Then the clock strikes midnight or the alarm sounds.
The spell breaks, totalitarian reality invades.
And dreams flutter away, evasive and light,
Like diaphanous silk skirts.
Nov 14, 2011
Nov 14, 2011 at 2:51 AM UTC
I cannot recall the precise moment of my arrival at Anhedonia
memories blindsided by a phantasmagoric comorbid collage of cant
precipitated by some newspaper reportage or holocaust story
some creepy instance that breached the precipice between simple sorrow and permanent melancholia
some fatal blow that cinched the deal
some horrid event that could not heal
some dejected disappointment that could not be resolved
some moment of unguarded clarity when integrity dissolved
nevertheless I have arrived at this mangled juncture
élan a mania not even Edison's medicine can extirpate
I was quite lighthearted before the inferno
before my brain broke
ennui now a turgid companion
feeding on gaiety, never sated, seeking famine
esurient unrelenting usurper of happiness
go away, leave me alone, relish some other soul's madness
gone is any exuberance, glee or mirth
miseries are mine, many the days since birth
better I was carried from the womb straight to the grave
a fatuous existence, clamoring and grasping in vain
it's as if I was born into a well
but these waters they burn
the bludgeoning alcohol a liquid hell
Oh florid loquacity, you are an impostor
your verse is an adversary
a foray of jagged rhythm justifying a storm
a sordid verbosity assuring no norm
a plaintive scratching guild of recriminative collaboration
some alliance of fulminating disquietude
the cost for the fare on the adventure to:
the stunning moment you too will visit Anhedonia
Feb 15, 2014
Feb 15, 2014 at 9:39 PM UTC
My father's long fingers smooth
over the aged scratchy pleats.
The Kilt is magnificent. It has the
fleeting beauty that only a well
kept antique has, that warm
firelight glow of the past.
It has a few scuffs and holes,
but the somber reds and greens of
clan Mackintoish have settled into
the cloth and darkened pleasantly.
The kilt is always the most important detail,
it has passed from grandfather down,
and it looks as handsome now
as in the sepia photographs on our shelves.
The dirks black ornate hilt rests
heavily against his hip, and the
belt is cinched tightly to hold it up.
you can practically hear bagpipes
My grandfather's dark green cotton socks
sit near the top of my father's calf
and he leans over to adjust the frills.
And as his tan wrinkled brow furrows
in concentration, and his admittedly
attractive white whiskers scrape
across his collar, and the image
nears completion, the drum beats louder.
Reaching up from the ancient past
and grasping the future in tradition,
the ghosts of ancestors enter his poise,
and he suddenly appears less like
my father and takes on the swagger
of a cocky fisherman, of pirate.
He is swinging swords
and playing pipes, and cobbling, and
setting stones upright in ancient
forgotten ritual, and tossing cabers.
I know looking at him now,
what my own ghosts will be
when my time comes.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 8:16 PM UTC
it's not even noon, but
my thoughts are drenched with
*** bound and gagged.
you're dancing around the kitchen, clad
only in a pair of
lace ******* you paid
too much for at Victoria's
Secret liaisons by the
seaside, sand sieving through your hair:
all forms of metal-backed currency taste
like ***** on your fingertips stuffed
roughly in my mouth,
call me a ****
pretty please?
promethazine slathered over
watermelon sherbert and
soaked in Sprite; put a lid on it and
shake vigorously until well mixed.
Xanax exacerbated migraines mean
naptime for me, and I forgot to tell you
the Gatorade is spiked with *****
(or maybe tequila; I've well and truly
forgotten) and all of this
is just another means of
replacing you.
you're wrapped in an
ecru trench coat,
cinched at the waist over
concealed weaponry:
unlicensed pistol and wet coral *****
constrained by a black leather holster and
cobalt cotton.
you kissed me with
******* in your nostrils and
nosebleed on your lips;
you killed me with
contempt in your mouth and
venom on your nails.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:18 PM UTC
At the going down of the sun
will the world be less complete,
the cinched robe of night less intolerable,
as she ebbs away on cosmic string,
emulating a massless, dazed neutrino
blinking in and out of existence,
unobserved and uneffected,
liquored and unloved?
In the wake of a June flowering,
when foxglove lures the honeybee
in six day flash, bud to corolla,
blossom to blossom, parade of stigmas,
digitalis stamen braved, anther at his back,
the bee comes gathering where none else dare.
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 2:08 AM UTC
To discover human remains
Cinched to the rafters
he leapt off
Adorned in the noose
a morbid necklace
Inner turmoil no more to live
A note deserted in drunken scrawl
In shreds
those left behind
Fatherless innocents
inquire why
No rationalization
for a senseless deed
Aching at the formalities
Enduring our shared existence
Bye is the lifetime
that remains in the past
Dried up are all the tears
Angst with respect to an echo
Horror lays imprinted on my mind
Forever gone
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 8:25 PM UTC
November
Crisp weather
Together
Again
Our sweaters
Blue and maroon
Were you nervious?
I was too.
Fingers inched
Memoried pinched
Heart strings tugged
Surely cinched
There we were
Together again
More than just
Two old friends
Tree limbs bare
Crunching brush
New old growth
Made me blush
Sep 20, 2018
Sep 20, 2018 at 10:01 PM UTC
The deluge came without warning,
too fast for it to seep underground.
So, they broke the soil for a taste of rain
and openly met the flood.
They cinched towards exposed surfaces
only asking for more.
So quickly, it was as if
their bloated bodies were ripped from the soil
and thrown to the sidewalk.
They littered the pathways.
A mass suicide in pink.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 12:12 AM UTC
My black cat
of twelve years
pretends not to know me
following my five months of hospitalized absence.
Perhaps it is the newly acquired wheelchair,
or the motorized invalid bed?
Why should he be any different than some old friends
whose calls are now noticeably less frequent
than prior to my paralyzing accident?
Or perhaps it is I,
too cinched up in my need bag
to reach out for a pet pat
or a pal chat?
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
You tell me repeatedly that I am wasting away,
that my arms are too slim,
my waist too cinched,
and my chest too boney,
but the only thing I hear
is your insecurity making me its mirror,
and in actuality
I have never been more proud of my progress.
Instead of concern for my well-being,
all I feel when that sentence slips from your lips
into the stale air that creeps into my ears
is a knife in my gut.
I am not wasting away,
I have already wasted.
I wasted away my breathlessness when he told me he cheated on me.
I wasted away the utopian idea of who I ached to be
and what I strived to look like.
I wasted away the pressures I gave into
when he wanted to force himself on me.
I wasted away the insecurities and trust issues I harbored for five years.
I wasted away his manipulations,
his deceit,
his pathological lies,
his slander for my name,
and the guilt I felt for cutting him out
and clawing my way back in.
I wasted away the anger and depression that almost consumed me.
I wasted away my lack of knowledge toward myself.
I wasted away my blank path,
and I wasted away my restlessness for the next chapter,
because I am the next chapter.
So, the next time you feel the need to tell me that I am wasting away,
The next time you think it's okay to say something like that to me,
I want you to not look at me,
but see me.
I want you to feel the curve on my hips and the stretch marks on my thighs
that I am okay with having.
I want you to look into my eyes
and see the fire I reignited in my soul
to warm the blood that pumps through these deep vessels
which carry each piece of the shattered self that I put back together
like the mouth of the river that flows straight into the heart of the ocean.
No, I am not wasting away.
I’m not wasting another day.
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 10:31 PM UTC
I feel him hurting
me. Already.
With cinched waists and jarred backs--
a trickle down my eye, carving out
my lips. My tongue. My spine. Your hands--
the rough carpenter of longing.
I crave to find your center--
the point of equilibrium where
two words meet and
love, and writhe and conquer.
All of me is
vulnerable and molten
and yours.
Yours is something different,
different from mine,
from his. His is more.
His is power. Is Glory.
Is light and strength
and Yours.
And what's more?
Is mine. Is our
breath. Our metronome
and the syncopated
rocking of your arms and the bed frame.
Just left
of center. Just right
on target.
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 4:14 PM UTC
I sit on our recliner,
Luna bar wrapper on the floor.
My robe is cinched
too tight, a reminder--
your fingers should meet
around my waist, but my ****
and *** should spill out of your palms
because defined curves and wiles
are the definition of a divine
woman worthy of insta-fame,
tumblr posts, and right
swipes.
I'll twist and turn and pose
in front of any mirror, desperate
for a flat-planed stomach and fuller
cleavage, the whole time
wondering if you look at me bent
over the bathroom counter, fixing my eyeliner,
and think that I'm a dime disguised
in a size 0 dress.
If my sides could shrink as fast
as my self-esteem, I'd never crunch
my abs into idealistic numbers again.
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
fifty years later
you girls wear their old dresses
over sky
blue leggings
lace
and fabric that smells
of lost time
you found them
in stores
with high ceilings
and a sloppily simulated
rustic vibe
you love your
waists tastefully
cinched
and collar bones
concealed
you twirl before
the full length
mirrors and
wish oh how
you wish
you could
have been born
then instead of now
everything
was so much classier!
the women
were a different
kind of beautiful
women
who smoked
in their bathtubs
cardboard hairdos
unraveling
women
elbow deep in
baking
soda and dishsoap
soft secretive
smiles overtaking
their
faces
as they rattled
through the
medicine
cabinet
for a snack
(twice a day)
pregnant again
for
the fourth
time
yet
thin as a rail
somehow
ghosts
in their own
skin
silent but
deadly
crying manically
because of
the smoke
in their eyes
choking gently
on the powder
all over their tight
lovely complexions
dinner ready
at six
sharp as a rusty nail
fantasizing
about what it would be like
to fall in love
with another woman
scuffing their knees
and showing the raw
skin off to all
the young men
with sunlight left over
from childhood still
swimming in their
eyes
or walking home
in the rain
without an umbrella
and having that be ok
slapping their
own faces
at such trecherous
thoughts
obsessing
over how
their mothers did
it with
so much **** grace...
but yes
girls
their clothes
were simply
divine
Feb 2, 2010
Feb 2, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC
You’ve always been a midnight saboteur.
From dawn til dusk,
your convictions convince you
but in the honest darkness,
can you be sure?
Your mouth is tangled
by the tales you tell yourself,
cinched tightly--your lips are purse strings.
Since I’ve no confidence with a sword,
will your Gordian knots triumph again?
Too often, you’re enthralled
by the charm of your attic lies,
But tonight,
you’ve finally pulled apart the bad.
Turn on the light and see you’re good.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 9:44 AM UTC
Do not go there
Daughter Dear.
He is rough and
Smells of beer.
And I would not
Want you seen
On his loud
Two-wheeled machine.
He is not your
Type at all,
He's too handsome,
Strong and tall..
What would all the
Neighbors say
When they see you
Ride away
With your skirt all
Cinched-up high
With that Dark and
Handsome guy?
What? You say he
Has a job?
Educated?
Not a slob?
Well, I guess then,
Just one date.
I'll wait up though,
Don't be late.
Jun 13, 2011
Jun 13, 2011 at 10:13 PM UTC
You can't stop the world from turning
If you feel like jumping off
You can't double up your earnings
If your middles gotten soft
You can dream of the solution
But you must act on it as well
Just make sure of what your doing
Cause you can't unring a bell
You can't stop a word that's hateful
Once it's flying through mid air
You can't make a person grateful
If they've never really cared
You can't change the image in the looking glass
Or halt a wave mid swell
A churning ocean is never clear
And you can't unring a bell
You can't start a new beginning
If your at the very end
Nor untie a knot cinched tight
With only thoughts blown on the wind
You can't promise the world in wonder
And the stars above as well
Then decide at last to take it back
Cause you can't unring a bell
You can't change the law of physics
Or add words to a dried up pen
There's no fourth to your three wishes
And you can't hide behind your name
It's hard to see light if you're too far down
In the digging of your well
Breathing does not mean you're living
And you can't unring a bell
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
Amazing what
Never cleansed
Dirteous skews-
Appall us
Appealing-
Glurveous revealing-
Tippled *******
Cinched
A lack
Unnerving
Loves
At you.
✊
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 3:11 AM UTC
She was gorgeous misery framed
in makeshift bandage corsets
cinched with fall from grace
sutured lace to save face
Her battered life rife with strife
covered in the mock elegance of
a broken wing dress as
the frenzies
in her enigmatic
mascara trail of tears glare
soften slow burn devotions
hastening their hopeless necromantic
insurrection
He was a fatal attractive
midnight black feathered wraith
Modeling trouble need scar heart genes
and a bleedwork tainted warshirt
earned by tethering himself to a mistake on
countless battlefields
his enemies' rancorous fear resonates
in a crippled ripple
across stillbirth waters
With his outspoken outrage accented
by photographic violence
knowledge of immoral history charm and
disguised threat lodge wisdom
luring her into
their surprised allegory demise
In the here and now we find
uncaring torture chamber musicians
singing in the black ground
as these two scar-crossed lovers entangle
in a shotgun wedding
and machine gun funeral
Knowing from the start
it would always be
the two of them
together as one
against the old world
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
She could stand alongside the Gods,
with her Greek and imposing figure.
She seemed to know the true meaning of grace,
grazing asphalt with her presence.
Her gentle legs brought upon silent admiration,
her cinched waist accentuating hidden curves,
it was as if her body held a soft prowess,
dominating the art of anatomy.
This statuesque beauty held no shame in her step,
she was rhythmic and lyrical,
I couldn't keep my eyes off.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
Click, hum. The phone line dies,
The ghost of rejection tickling one
Ear as it floats across the other. Her
Breath goes with it, a short exhale
Of frustration and grief.
The room is now silent, save for the
Shallow breaths of the aging dame
Grey mascara rivers running down
Thin crevices, inexorable lines of
An inevitable future. No makeup
So fine and polished can mask: she’s fallen
Victim to the times, pushing and straining
As far as the limits of her youth will allow
Cold remnants of an untouched meal
Watch from the corner, stale, unwanted
collecting dust and fleas,
Waiting to be disposed of, bound to be forgotten.
She pauses, blinks. The pit of her stomach
Grumbles in understanding -- two hands
Jump to grasp a cinched waist.
Open bourbon, brought in anticipation of good news
Teases: no cheers for the old hag!
A fist and a table, an empty glass soon
Filled as she pours herself a bitter dose
Of panacea, just a little something to take
The edge of her face, to knock off a few years and
Quiet the pain.
Fifty and forgotten, candle in the wind
A name that once drew the largest of crowds,
Full theatres and a demand in the public eye,
Now brings nonchalance, indifference, or
Worse -- ignorance! Who?
The young starlings, bright, eager doe-eyed
Little things: they are the new pull, the desired
Flavor and choice eye candy. She trembles, but
Blames the alcohol: after all, it whispers,
Who wants to look at you?
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 11:11 AM UTC
This purple silk is the colour of love, but a symbol of love I am not.
It is not love they see as I stroll along the street,
My waist cinched and gilded with poor man’s gold
(God forbid a woman should have anything to herself).
They think the shadows of their top hats hide their gaze
But I can feel their perverse eyes skimming my form. Hypocrites.
We’re forever forced to dress in a way that is pleasing
And overtly obvious to their unclothing, naked eyes;
Liberating, perhaps, if we were granted the freedom to act in accordance
With how the silk makes us feel as it caresses our skin
With how the stiffness feels against the flesh of our chests
With how the weight of our skirts make us long for a tender touch.
I have to wonder if Harriet Mill sits equally adorned and ogled
As she writes of our enfranchisement, if John watches her work
In the dresses he bought to intensify her shape,
Before asking her precisely where she wants to be touched
Because he knows she deserves to demonstrate what she is capable of.
They claim that might is their right,
But they know nothing of the strength it takes to resist these carnal pleasures.
Observe my corseted form, but let me assure you,
This was not the kind of bone I wanted digging into me tonight.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
Ruby picked up her phone,
And clicked on Instagram,
She kept scrolling down through everyone's posts,
And for hours her phone was in her hand.
Ruby saw happy couples,
Smiles on every face,
Picture perfect flawless skin,
Food that looked too good to taste.
Luxuries & mansion houses,
Celebs living great lives,
Models eating salad leaves,
Jeans cinched in at their sides.
Ruby went doomscrolling,
Right down through the reels,
Short video after video,
Purposely addictive,
Cause these companies are hungry for the money, like a meal.
Sep 20, 2024
Sep 20, 2024 at 11:03 PM UTC