I am so afraid of becoming White Collar Micheal.
He likes to act like his life is so hopelessly blightful, because his name is White Collar Micheal.
On the weekend, he throws on a tie-dye.
Goes from Business Man, to Mr. Nice Guy?
Deep down you know it's a facade, aka,
Your big life's a big lie.
He does so many uppers you may as well call it the tweekend.
He fills his mind with illusions of grandeur.
I look at him and think "you need to be a man first."
Instead of filling my head with candy and dreams, I face my demons.
And it's utterly delightful because I know I will never become a
White Collar Micheal.
Full disclosure, I didn't write this poem. It was written by my Husband - still working on a pen name.
Of my fellow man. My burden. My loyalty is an invitation to mold my precious life into disgusting waste. His vison of me is a brush stroke in his perverted masterpiece. His life's work is shambles of nothing remarkable. Under him, all I paint with is grey.
How it felt about when she smiled
Her roses were red wine
Teeth were an iceberg in a cold sea
I didn't know she knew me more than by name
I walked head up to her in a confident laze
She always willed to lay a hand in a steamy time
Whenever she called me by my pet name
I would light up a grin
How I couldn't help her spell
How much I belied of having a way out
The more she drew close, the more I sank in
How she made seduction a white collar trade
The lavish eyes, the lazy talk, the pure feminine mien
She pat on my shoulder and turned to catch a glance
Asked what made her hands a soft pleasure
Whispered that she was schooled in pottery and making dough
I couldn't stop but ask about the flawless curves
She pushed out her lips and said I used to spin a ring at nine
I asked her out for a movie
She said tragedies make her cry
One day I went to look down through my office windowpane
My sight met hers taking down a secret gang
With a fierce nine millimeter gun
I was left speechless in awe
We needed to rethink our revolution
On her mission in Damascus a plane crashed
I still cried a pail.
This was inspired by a mysterious beautiful lady who used to help me out at work whenever I was clueless
We clanked our wine glasses together
Suits for the occasion
And I tried to remember the names
Especially the ones who’s faces I recognize
One man in particular looks older than I remember, with a haircut far too young
Talking all about
The deal of the last year
Maybe a Christmas bonus this year
So he can go home to his wife
“Look honey we can buy another car”
And maybe this time she won’t sleep
With the neighbor
I shake his hand hard because the poor old b*stard needs something
And maybes its this extravagant event
guys like me shaking his hand firm enough
That he knows he’s important somewhere
And we are all impressed by his hard work and loyalty
Maybe it's for you but not for me, but who knows?
When will the time stop and give way to the paradoxical space that will shove the soul out of its life, eventually?
Tend to think that the archetypal white collar worker is what you should be before you delve into the reality?
Jumped into the ripest chord of a void song, and you found nothing but truth and perplexity?
Threw yourself into the wilderness but you are still deprived of happiness, only peace, filled with emptiness?
Crashed the mental into bi-polarizing set of uncertainty and sanity, driving everything towards the ravine of confusion and misinterpretation?
Dropped the last sweat of joy and contentment before you discover the eventuality, pessimistic value of the whole context?
Until the ultimate full stop appears, will you understand what is the whole story is all about?
What did you expect me to say?
Surely you noticed,
I've got a cat anyway.
Love the lush velvet collar
around its throat
but why on earth
have you coloured it's coat?
Yes, I know I love lilac.
Lilac poppies are best.
I think you need a
Poetry by Kaydee.
Get your ears tested.
//the door to your bedroom was a portal to a world unseen
your bed, the ocean
& your sheets, the sand
with the crevices caused by the tide
it flowed so sweetly over the soft sand
beyond the door, serenity was foreign to you
you were only there when you needed to be
you, who had knit the thickest wool to pull over my eyes
thicker than the blindfold we used
the frenzy I remember
frenzy further cured with discipline
and you know what?
"I like that ***** ****."
how will you discipline me today, daddy?
it was what you taught me after all
to be a brat for no one but you
to be no one else's little girl
if not I'd be a bad girl
bad girls get punished
bad girls get no love
so I saved you the trouble and left my collar at the door//
Cradle me in your collar bone
Let me curl up and live there,
Beneath the shadow of your jaw,
In the crook of your neck.
I’ve lost sleep over that collar bone,
And I’ll lose sleep again
Until I’m yours.
Truly Great Gratitude knows how to cook
From my Mentor reward a Burger's Gift
Out of a Contest she saw a New Look,
A New White Shirt whose Collar I did lift
So during the orders our Themes discussed
From Family to Travel saw a Best Face
With you your own Self renew and re-trust
Your Fresh Bond Paper your Husband sought Grace
Only when we bartered our Wallet's view
Was when your Picture's truth I discovered
How Human you are; And Friendlier new
Which self-doubted Fever I recovered.
Luncheon was Great; And now invades the Rain
We better both run with Minutes remain.
The photograph hangs on the wall by the window
Three judges appear (one carries a folder),
A tarot card reader, embalmer, engraver
Without much to say and not much of it said
About the boot in the crib and the tire in the bed,
The round faced man and the *** on his head
Painted with flowers and chipped on its edge.
And the cat near the door with its collar and bell
Flailing and airborne and mid caterwaul.
And the three-legged dog with her leash on
And sweater, jubilant, leaping— Mon Dieu! Grand jeté!
And the crow— O the crow! In its cage cawing “Fire!”
The crow crowing “Mayhem!” and “****** most foul!”
The dog and the cat and the crow and the tire,
The cage and the crib, the *** painted in flowers;
All in a frame with a sign alongside—
“Self portrait. Around the Ides of July.”
A ribbon is clipped and then hung for its owner.
It bears the word “Mention” and then the engraver
Makes a note on a form he hands to the embalmer.
The tarot card reader turns— She and her hat,
And addresses the room, “Ain't no card made for that.”
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle and in paperback. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry by common means.)
In bed, I lay
upon my cushioned existence I stay
but outside the world's at play
birds swimming in the sky
and trees that gently sway
dancing the day away
and I continue to lie
the distant sounds
of yawning grounds
two parched lips
as the Earth does rip
let the rain come
so we may take a sip
falls upon a discarded deckchair
striped like candy cane
blotched with the rain
scattered upon sandy dunes
could this be a monsoon
but still worth the wait
paid patience admission at the gate
one ticket to wet wet wet
this is what patience gets
just need a raincoat
so I can appear in the matrix
how can you hate this
a neopolitan sky
dripping with colour
if I were a scholar
I could espouse on its many virtues
instead, I turn up my collar
and tip my hat
a little milk won't hurt you
an umbrella swung round a lamppost
and now I'm Gene Kelly
still wearing a raincoat
romancing the moonlight
for night has snuck in the back door
like an absent teenager
but this too shall pass
soon the dunes turn to grass
and I to return to task
a new day
This is what happens when you don't get up straight away.
We don't have a dog because we live in rented accommodation,
So my wife put on a spotted onezie and became a dalmatian,
With a diamante collar and a matching faux-leather lead,
I walked her to the park where squatting she peed,
And was chasing thrown sticks running on all four,
When she was unexpectedly mounted by an elderly labrador.
I waved my arms and shouted but didn't know what to do,
As the local pack, arriving, formed a disorderly queue,
A lurcher, some spaniels and an ambitious pekingese,
Took turns as she braced herself on her hands and knees.
Then delighted by the freedom of unmuzzled fornication,
She left me for a policewoman -
Who owned a very large alsatian.
Based on real life events
In quick-step and in air-cushioned silence,
With the drumbeat threat of mob violence,
All those laces were quite absurd,
But to us 'Jo-***' was just a verb.
Now the Alts stand in plain sight,
Hidden by our new dress code,
An Oxford collar and a Derby brogue.
She had a
and lots of flaws
for me to fix.
And she wore them
all in front of me
like a fur coat
with the collar up.
An addict for codependency
morning dew drops on your collar
impressing me with the zealous way the seasons drastically measure the moment it takes me
to reach forwards and brush it off
liquid winter falling onto a ***** cement
the initials 'F T' written jaggedly into the cold stone of asphalt
i wait for it to disappear, for the flicker of everything gone to fade from my vision
but it passes too quickly
i look back up and there's no one around
the street is empty and the capricious wind has ceased
a sucker for patterns i walk into a fabric store and feel my hand linger on the erratic linens
fingers paused on the peach organza sprawled like a pink bubblegum sea
and i am swept into the manic fantasies of wearing the sheer tissue-like textile into
the abdomen of your sweaty palm and sinking like a sticky sweet stripe
until you put your hand in your pocket and i spend a year inside melting
into the every thread and curve of your jean until it is nothing but disgusting sugar
everything i could be when i am hidden from sight in the dark caverns of denim pants
who knew the tongue in cheek joke would be nothing but my tongue in your mouth
touching all the way up your gums
find me sweltering beneath the uvula wondering if i could go back
to the time i found that girl with the mountain logo sweatshirt who whistled between her teeth and hummed all the reasons i should skin my knee and kiss the salty wound because there's no greater pleasure than knowing you don't have to wait for that morning dew drop to fall from their ******* collar
dogmatical snakebird dictator
**** rooster of electro maniacal damnation
goober eyed ithyphallic mortal yahoo yawns
glacier shuffle to Midas’ bowl
minty hairy pasty headed *******
seafoam ***** on white vanity beaches
deceitful murderous metal cartel scraping
dead shrubs from yesterday’s winter
egg flour chalk smack
guzzling bean kerosene
batshit bureaucratic badgers bludgeon
muktuk hamsters lubricating wheels of fortune
butcher’s dead friend between greasy toasted cement
harlot’s heavenly tomato mating cabbage cousin
taradiddle of martyrs at jargon’s temple blather
babble, bumble - copulation without *******
unicorn steaks, butterfly sauté, and
leprechaun fingers, a side of manslaughter dolphin
a felon’s holiday
You filled your skin with sharp lead and your arms with cigaret burns, without any screams, but with the blue mass that touched your cheeks. You used to think, that to put on a massiv amount of black eyeliner, would hide the fact, that you couldn't sleep at night. And you used to think that starving yourself, would make you feel just a little bit better about who you were, but all you ended up with was a stomach you could fit your hands around, collar bones that stuck far out from your skin, so they could break at anytime and your hipbones were like knifes, that could slice a man open. You used to do and think so many stupid things, and you were just this little self-conscious girl that needed to be loved and accepted by someone. That little girl is still inside you, but you have learnt to control her and say no when she wants to play.
The obsession you have with the size of your hips.
They should be smaller,
Don't you think?
Oh, and be sure to do whatever it takes to have that thigh gap.
It's so worth it.
That thigh gap.
The more space the better.
The emptiness of your body.
The jutting collar bones.
Worth every inch lost off your waist.
It is worth your once full and lushious hair now falling out like dead leaves.
Because you're dying.
You are killing yourself.
But it's all fine.
You're obsessed with telling yourself that it's all under control.
Theres no sleep at night.
Not when your anxiety is this intense.
Not when your up planning how to skip the rest of the weeks meals.
Use that time to be productive.
Like right now.
Lying awake... obsessing.
But it's s all fine, right?
Because that thigh gap.
And bony fingers.
You're deliriously falling over every **** time you stand, and you think it's all still fine now?
You think it's still worth it?