"corseted" poems
Saddle up
Gurl!
It's time
to hit the trail,
as quietly & gently
I spank the pony-
tail,
&
know,
it's how
I love you, baby..
You'll see me riding like the wind,
spurred on by our time & trials ~ that no-one got to win.
We were always mining Fools Gold & giggle indulging every sin!
Our
Poke(h)er
hands
stayed empty
&
the music's...
long since died.
Your sweet songs done,
gone & left me
(sobs)
tumbleweed rolls by
Once
we prospected forever
in this inky ol' ghost town
marking spots with X's before
a WANTED sign was found
and
One Moonshine
still
ain't big en'f 'f both of us
to get our quills thirst drowned
(hic-
cup)
"Look West,
and to the horizon,
see the stage at the edge of town?"
My last performance, PRIVATE, snigger to all the wide-eyed boys around
Ace-high, on a barebacked filly, play gallerying all my skills
I'll slap my thigh
&
Yee-haw !
riding for them there hills
~Saddled up in the softest leather
Chin up!Deep Breath!Chest out!
Corseted
& brimming,
encased in
perfume scented lace
~Bat my eyelids for the masses~
I'll find another place.
And
then you can
cut a swell down Main Street,
(remember the brothels to your right)
keep your low slung loaded though, for it's no place to start a fight
cos just outside that swing (ing) door,
the coffin maker winks at such a cheerful sight,
stood grimacing in his top hat,
grasping 13 nails
tight.
&
I'm sure
you'll measure up
darling
blowing rubied kisses
as
I bid
mine own
true-love's heart
goodnight.
***HiHO Silver,
away..........!***
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 5:33 PM UTC
*Hide behind beauty's façade
Dripping head to toe in fraud
We will dance into the night
Souls, for once, taking flight
Corseted waists so insanely thin
Disgusting secrets kept within
Painted lips form a shallow smile
Make-up covering features vile
We wish to stay so pretty and slight
Pretending perfection for just one night.*
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 3:47 PM UTC
Upon the announcement of my arrival
my ancestors weaved brillant threads to make a quilt for my bed
with steadfast hands, they weaved themselves a plan
who i was to become, what kind of man
upon the days of my arrival
my ancestors fantastically wrapped me up in the quilt of blue and red
this quilt housed me for many seasons
itched me, pinched me, left me cold at night
bit me, tripped me, straggling my rights
the brillant quilt made to protect became my golden cage instead
their plan created my strife
their plan corseted my life
after years spent suffocating in the threads
i decided to break away from the plan
emerging like a little chick out of an egg
i chose to live my life today
still the foundation laid was unscathed
every trigger sent my heart into disarray
independence fortified, return to the egg
the quilt might be itchy, it might be tight
but it is easier than learning how to fly
Jul 12, 2023
Jul 12, 2023 at 1:55 PM UTC
It's love
for the love of love
Are you a crazy love woman
skivvy to the scourge of happiness
that jealous sister of hatred
who keeps herself
who gives herself
for the love of love.
Well, you've been had
it's the epic travesty
our nature, corseted
into words and sermons
contorted to fit more moral mouths
than mine. ******* moralist hypocrites.
I'l show you love
when I shove that love
where the sun don't shine.
Always thinking of you
Happy Valentines.
Sep 29, 2010
Sep 29, 2010 at 7:45 PM UTC
In the mirror my skin is white
White.
Like snow, like clouds, like ashes.
Pure and milky, porcelain and unblemished, pale and alabaster:
White.
Such a pride, such a power.
My skin is white, but my soul is not.
In the mirror, wide dark eyes in a pale face.
They are ashamed.
I look at them, study them, wondering:
Am I?
Could I?
ARE we who we were?
We, who beat down the broken, scorned the helpless,
Yoked our workhorses to the plows of liberty.
We who doled out lashes and harsh words.
We who stood idly by, apathetic and indifferent.
The blood that courses under my white skin, almost translucent, showing blue veins- that is the blood of generations.
It IS we, is it not? Us.
We killed them, we used them.
Doubt blooms, full and supple, spreading inside of me as I stare at myself.
We'd all love to think we are above cruelty,
but could I be so blind?
Could these eyes have looked the other way as another person was wronged, broken, chained?
Could this heart have made excuses, hidden behind "God", hardened against empathy?
Could these pale hands have lashed an ebony back, in another life, another world?
All for what?
A color, a heritage.
Could these ears have heard the songs, assumed the meaning, mistook the words?
Sing of a brother beaten, of a child sold away, of a way out.
Where is the land of "liberty"?
Could these lips have uttered insults and racial slurs, at people who were not people, about lives that were not lived?
What right have I to think I would be different?
In the mirror, I see not just myself, but all of us.
I see the privileged whites, men ruled by avarice, women corseted by tradition, fooled into believing that they were always right.
That WE were.
I look at us, and I do not see white.
I see souls, stained red with black blood.
And I see tears on an alabaster cheek in the mirror.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
Blue rinse and set
home done.
Meant the colour changed every time,
from shades of pale lilac...
to electric neon light.
Always wave set never permed.
Hair too fine.
She was what they,
termed politely,
in those days:
"a large ***** woman."
Corseted nine to five,
in matrons whites.
Jiggly in a flambouyant orange muu muu by night.
A spinster, devoted to work and extended family,
large of heart and appetite.
A soft place to fall,
when the stonelike,
stoicism of my mother, became to harsh to bear.
I was flummoxed,
when in my teens,
I found a dog eared,
Kama Sutra,
in my blue haired aunts cupboard.
I can honestly say....
I learnt a lot... about a lot ...that day.
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
we don’t need
to be fixed.
we need to be
aware. open. owning it.
embracing
our pain, our history
our patterns, our spasms.
confession:
I've been fantasizing…
that one day you'd roll up,
like Richard Pryor at the end of Moving,
sitting atop a semi-truck of your whatnots,
war paint smeared upon your dashing,
wearing a tie bandana and bullet sash,
carrying a semi-automatic weapon,
after stalking your **** cross-country,
to the front of our gutted dream house,
after this misadventure, arriving, finally,
at home imperfect, thankful just to be,
there with delirious, Cheshire cat grin,
like a lion dragging in a carcass,
bloodied, brave and proud,
eager to greet my eyes and say:
*Honey! Look what I found!
I found my ****
I brought my **** home...
This is my ****
and I would greet you,
with water-colored greys
inking down my dimpled peach,
in a black and white gingham apron,
heels, nylons and corseted vintage dress,
mirroring that ********* right back,
tray of warm hash brownies in hand,
that got nothing on my toasty sweet
lips dripping to say:
*Your **** is lovely, darling.
It'll go perfect with mine!
It's up in the attic - properly labeled,
arranged and categorized.*
and with that kind of
ownership, acceptance and bravery,
there is no way our stuff will ever be
more powerful than us, together,
merged and emerging,
by way of wings, soaring,
above our shit-spattered clouds.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
I said it was not meant for me,
But what did I mean?
For any youth, any love,
Whose prey who might be,
On whom you’d lean,
In your semi-corseted skirt,
Or dressed full fig.,
Stalking into town,
Shocking men in wigs,
Luring them into false love,
As others had been?
Would you capture me,
Chaining my soul to your heart,
So I must carry on playing
At your command?
I see your dress under the piano,
And your boots and pantaloons;
The piano is not my voice,
Though you insist it is.
I shot a drunken man for you,
Which made me more your slave.
You woke urges I suppressed,
Too strong for one so frail.
With words you pushed me
But caused music to pour
From me as love did.
A storm of disapproval raged all round
Our Paris nest of love and art,
You came and went like a soldier, shielding us,
And at home you urged me on,
To impromptu inventions,
Yet causing us to depart.
Packed into a cabochon,
You shanghaied me,
Away to Majorca
And the wintry sea.
Your searing love and the island’s cold
Were too much for me,
And I escaped with my art.
Jul 8, 2018
Jul 8, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC
I lean toward the light
but am rather fluent
in the tongue of night
a full house lies
beneath corseted wings
slipped in ripped nylons
upper thigh clings
deal me yours -
iron fangs, claws, force
scrawl impassioned pains
branding your name
primal submitting
heart catharsis
although
you probably
should know
I can play
crowmistress
as good (or better)
than possessedkitten
if you push me
too far
my core
is prism pure
but I can make you
question that
hard
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 1:24 AM UTC
He hoarded fingernails he bit off or found
in the curtain-less showers in a pile in his cell,
like a pixie collecting shrunken satyr horns.
He ate only the cheese at lunch and pulled
off the white fat bologna and let it sweat
in the sink.
His markhor beard held dead skin and peanut butter
clumps and it refused to grow anymore.
Behind the rosewood door
he stood on the steel toilet and stared into
the sun-glow bulb dimmed behind plexiglass.
When he was tired he slept under the bunk
like a frightened child.
He was allowed an hour a day
to stretch his harpy legs,
he’d hop to the phone and talk
to the dial tone like it were a confessional
to John Paul II,
“God doesn’t know, God never knew”.
I found him on a Tuesday afternoon
after lunch cleanup hanging by a shoelace
from his light fixture,
curved like a sunflower.
I cut the stem from the pseudanthium
and it wilted into my arms.
His neck looked like a corseted waist,
and when I loosened the shoelace
his dry mouth opened and he coughed bleu cheese
returning life into my face.
His teary mud colored eyes rolled forward and we stared into
each others as I cradled him like a baby.
He later told John Paul he wanted to quiet the voices.
In ’97 he took his ***** girlfriend’s crying three
month old and quieted him by crushing his
skull in a dresser drawer.
Nov 23, 2014
Nov 23, 2014 at 7:45 PM UTC
haughty and hateful or pitilessly played,
head freed from embroidered shoulders,
her heart beat, heavy, behind corseted layers.
Temptress or model maiden,
she fell just the same.
The jewel in a king’s crown,
cast away for the next shining stone.
Nov 8, 2020
Nov 8, 2020 at 2:46 PM 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
*concerning an English lass... i rather 'ave a kebab than eat that **** to be honest: she's had more **** than me -stani! well yeah, thank **** for that, i don't need gangrene on my mouth as necessary lipstick; i liked Queen and Freddy Mercury too! but that ain't the point!*
shady concerns for East Europe by
feminists concerned with
prostitution are only subvert assertions
of post-colonialism; one
***** doesn't mind another,
write like a **** darling,
you'll get anywhere - the *******
are from England or Corseted France,
uptight ***** let's face it,
real "rebels", instead revellers of Ibiza,
and nothing more, Brussel's toothpicks
rather than chopsticks fidgeting over
some other worthy capitol; i mean, who needs
a chocolatier nation to govern us
when we're all suddenly diabetic?
turn my women into ****** i turn your
men into ******** cock-users un-necessarily
circumcised by the St. Paul's doctrine on
his way to Damascus - because those
retards should have, have your feminism's worth
of **** to boot - index and thumb
insignia on the Ire forehead: L: LOSER;
cos' you are - fudge-pack those sheep
off **** off the Dover cliffs and i'll won't
gang bang you silly with a Welsh tongue,
ole V!
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
She painted my lips black,
and brushed my auburn hair back.
She said I was far too pretty,
to bare anything bold like that.
She tied my hair with ribbon,
and brushed glitter along my cheeks.
She said ladies aren't as pretty if
they forget to gloss their faces.
Later on she covered my eyes,
and pushed my esteem into her resonable size.
She said that we can't be so different,
she wouldn't like it like that.
She dolled me up in silver,
and made me porcelain,
then she glossed my lashes,
and corseted my waist.
When she placed me on my shelf,
I took a look around.
Beside me, on my left and right,
were two girls also bound.
Her lips were black like Ravens,
and her hair was pulled back slick.
The other was shined with glitter,
with her waist all bound and tight.
It occurred to me rather quickly,
why we're all upon this shelf.
She collects us and assimilates,
we're all her little dolls.
With such a life, you'll see,
Society always has her calls.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC
imagining absurd decorum trying to sit side-saddle
in a drawing room, hoping to attain some sense
of grace, whilst miserably uncomfortable, makes me want
liberation for all of such corseted beribboned ladies
let them run, in fields of gold, let them hear Sting singing
siren song to come away, loosen your stays, and follow
only this life, none other, throw down your needle-point,
cast from you the good book, and let limbs run wild
roll me in heather, under bridges, come to sky
in fields where the plow-man knows me well
tis a fair morning to a wonderful new day
come away, he smiles, my girl, come away
shall we n'er meet again, will have my plow-man
he shall have me, and the wanting comes in waves
May 30, 2018
May 30, 2018 at 6:38 PM UTC
The grains fall through corseted glass,
time squandered, regretted,
opportunities irretrievable,
a life whispered, then silent.
Listen – do you hear the music?
It plays on.
Strut, leap, beam wide-eyed,
ignite a soul ablaze to
inhale the aroma of the lush
severed blades of late summer,
grin at the smiling sunflowers,
sway to the music of love,
broad-hearted, full-throated,
spear the brass circle, then cast it into the sea.
“Oh, that. That was nothing.”
A life to see.
Oct 25, 2020
Oct 25, 2020 at 4:59 PM UTC