"denim" poems
#
*Ebony
silhouettes
inked
by a dying sun,
portray
lovers embraced
in
the synergy of one.
Inseparable
dreams
slowly
morph into one …
subservient
to the
whims
of the compliant
heart’s
drum.
And
azure pools reflect
a
tie-dyed denim sky,
as
enchanted dreamers
seal
their love with a kiss nearby.
Twinkling
stars confetti
the
emptiness of space.
And
as darkness descends,
shadows
swallow all of the light’s trace.
Reality
pauses …
as
time seems to stand so still
to
the depths of their very souls,
motionless
they swim.*
#
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 7:40 AM UTC
She was a thrifted sweater and denim and jersey knit sheets
Pizza breath and red wine and toothpaste
Alabaster skin and knotted hair and freckled shoulders
A tangible dream and my favorite good morning
She agreed to let me kiss her and I agreed to let her slip my shirt over my head before she became
Blood and tears
"I trusted you" and "I’m sorry"
Midnight poems and a drunk "I need you"
I’m afraid I loved you like the way I wrote
Feb 1, 2019
Feb 1, 2019 at 3:07 PM UTC
i had a thought.
i ran out of my room,
down the hallway,
and into the bathroom.
i wriggled out of my worn down, tie dye shirt.
hopping up and down as i pull off my
high-waisted jeans, pulling my pant leg with my foot as i
trample the dark denim to the ground.
i stand there naked, in front of the
harsh, full length mirror.
combing my fingers through my natural, wavy hair.
i contort my face in disgust, cocking
my head slightly to the side.
i close my eyes, and take one deep breath in.
when i open my eyes,
the reflection staring back at me is a thin, natural
beauty.
Her smooth ivory skin glows in the
silvery reflective glass.
Her stomach is flat and toned.
Her ******* lay on Her chest in perfect
proportion to the rest of her petite frame.
i run my fingers down the sides of my body.
my palms trailing along, dipping and
rising with the mounds beneath my skin.
i close my eyes and open them again,
this time taking my reflection for
what it really is.
i am fat.
my skin is pink and spotted with freckles the
colour of blood.
my stomach hangs low, covering the part
a man should see when i'm naked.
my ******* are big.
but not in the way you'd like them to be.
they lay there, sort of lop-sided.
hanging just above my ribs. Another place for
fat to take over.
the cuts on my thighs are hardly noticable
next to
all
that
fat
i can see tears in the eyes of the reflection staring back at me,
but i am numb.
i thought correctly. i am
fat. i am ugly.
Nobody in their right mind would want to
love me.
Nov 13, 2012
Nov 13, 2012 at 6:18 PM UTC
my heart nearly stopped every time i had to cross the street
so let’s thank the queen for writing it down
before she’s just another thing i have to step over
all the rest have tickled my feet so far
and everything under construction reminds me that these days
the only remedy seems to be better luck and more cloud cover
i’ve been racing to crash on the couch
just to wake up to see if i have time for it all
and i want the stereotype to be true so i have nothing to cry about
with the way things are going
you’d tell me not to be so brutal to myself
but the thrill i used to know is now paying its dues to the concrete
i was almost convinced i wasn’t asleep
when she whispered paris
nothing, everything may have changed
so this is not like anything i’ve never meant:
my heart nearly stopped with the regret of not talking to you
it's hard killing birds when you don't have any stones and
besides this time i think i've really done it
two days and this is already my favorite story but
second chances don't have to be so mysterious
maybe i just wanted to see you smile again
i should have said it w/o one of and the s after the L
still choosing o over x
and your pull showed my hands a home in the back of your denim
two across the channel makes the significant not so, if you want it
i’ll keep looking for you so long as you
don’t stop drawing me maps
if i died in my indecision then
your mouth showed me heaven
you’re the closest thing to purpose
i’ve ever tasted
i wish you knew how much i mean that
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 7:33 AM UTC
velcro wallet
was navy, i think
gray plastic zipper
grandma gave you
i had a locket
it had your picture inside
but you threw it away
because you looked like a rabbit
apparently
hair fluffed, eyes puffy
two teeth and two hours
of squirming on a photo booth
plastic coin pouch
small crayola blue
walmart sticker on a side
but it never made me smile
not like that piggy bank did
yard sale treasure
dinosaur-shaped
no smashing to withdrawl
our tooth fairy dollars and dust
still, you crammed stink bugs
down the long neck's back
now, a denim bag on my bed
rhinestoned one in the closet
and your wallet is
real leather, i think
has superheroes on it
rough and grungy
as the comic books in the attic
or, did you toss those too?
who needs a screwdriver
without a *****
that's all money was
just hardware we didn't have
much use for
but there is more than one way
to use a tool
so here, i'll paint it straighter
who needs a coffin without a corpse?
especially when we were
so full of life back then
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 9:13 PM UTC
There are grapes in my path
This abundant trail
now invisible as if we never were
Here, to pick and preen, salvage and reap
for pleasure and pain
I picked you some flowers,
I baked you a pie,
labors of love
with your own hands
connected to earth.
Breaking backs, and clinging sweat
Under wool, denim, straw, and cotton
Keeping more out than simply the sun
Depleted soil
Exhausted soul
Bursting with juice
Bountiful and hand chosen
And you in a hurry just drive by
Dust in the wind
Skin of clay mud
Day after day,
A boulder among the rows
Hunched in fields
Blistered and callused
Searching for more
Ripe for the picking
Migrants moving
Servitude by season
Benevolent harvest
Handpicked strawberries
By chocolate covered hands
destined from birth
closer to earth.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM UTC
by Arcassin Burnham
In this place with you tonight,
i could only walk in denim jeans,
holding your waste while we dance tonight,
i dont want to make you flea the scene,
And i'm looking hella cool,
and your looking so gorgeous,
no telling what we'll do,
Cause the night is flawless,
teenage love dont last forever,
And true love is in fairytales,
why can't you be the one and do better,
nobody cant stop our ship that sails,
too many pretty girls in dresses,
its hard not to stare at them,
she said boy i hoped you learned your lesson,
and i said girl the night won't end with them,
And i'm looking hella cool,
and your looking so beautiful,
no telling what we'll do,
Cause the night is so wonderful,
and teenage love dont last forever,
And true love is in fairytales,
why can't you be the one and do better,
nobody cant stop our ship that sails.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 5:45 PM UTC
gold in your hair,
denim on floor,
mistakes in bed,
bathing in each
other’s cologne,
i trace the freckles
on your back,
no more time to
talk, time has
hopped on a Cadillac,
purple becomes
my new skin tone,
one seal breaks
and now im in the
lost virtues zone,
my name becomes
your only vocab,
shortly after
I had it unwrap.
Apr 30, 2019
Apr 30, 2019 at 4:41 PM UTC
I threw out his socks today.
Those ******* socks.
Long Black Nike Socks that went up to his calves.
Long Black Nike Socks that he wore with his Two Hundred Dollar
French Raw Denim Jeans because he needed the Short Black Nike Socks
To wear to work with his Khaki Dickies Shorts.
Black Nike Socks that he reminded me for months he "needed"
For his birthday in order to function properly.
Black Nike Socks that didn't cost enough to be considered
A sufficient birthday gift,
Along with some other cute things (I thought),
Including a homemade coupon for dinner at
Any restaurant of his choice.
Short Black Nike Socks whose thirty-dollar price tag
Wasn't quite up to par with the forty-dollar
Concert ticket his obviously-better-than-me friend had
So benevolently bought him.
Those ******* socks.
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 6:54 PM UTC
This woman I know
quite the old hippie
gave me this lovely gift
A softened silk and denim dress
Folded loosely
just handed to me, unwrapped
(We felt the same about the waste of paper)
“This is for you.”
Opening it, I saw its gentle gathers from the shoulders
almost elegant, its drape
and the rough
but soft and dark of it
Real indigo dye
with silk laces from bust to waist
...then the tiny stitching...
NO!
Not by machine!
Knew the labor was – intensive
Every edge
was finished, sewn
by her caring hand!
"Oh, lady of my dream
whom I do not know
I THANK YOU!
From my soul"
I would have made this in another life –
time
of hope and longing
And then I saw that seam!
along the side
that wasn't... really...
just those thicker threads
a silk macrame
of knotted net
so – bold
to hold that one inch open
to hint at nothing –
and everything –
in between
“Oh hell! Oh ****
Does it come with an occasion??!!”
She smiled
somewhere between shy and sly
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 4:32 PM UTC
A little boy
Neat white shirt ironed to perfection
A monster truck plastered on the front
Denim jeans, fitting his skinny waist just right
Innovative
Imaginative
He loves creating new things
Making plain old cardboard into the next best thing
He gets his crayons
Sharpies and all
And runs to his room
All excited on his new project, his new creation
One piece of cardboard after the other
Rectangles flying everywhere
Coloring what looks like door handles onto cardboard?
The vision isn’t clear, yet it will come together soon.
He works quickly
With a due date set in mind
Full of ambition
The vision isn’t clear, yet it will come together soon.
He finishes his new achievement
Smiling happily at his new jumble of handiwork
Glued together precisely
The vision isn’t clear, yet it will come together soon.
He attaches the different shapes to himself
Straps glued to the cardboard
It seems he’s wearing armor
With doorknobs and wood grain painted on it with pure artistry
He hears someone come in the front door
His smile turns to panic
He quickly cleans up the supplies
Throwing things around the room anywhere they fit
He runs to the corner of his room
He quickly pulls the “armor” close to him
As he sits in the fetal position
His armor becomes a small dresser that looks as if it was made for clothes
The father bursts into the room
With rage spelled out on his forehead
The boy hides brilliantly afraid of the wrath to come
The father looks around the room carefully
*Come out Come out
Wherever you are
The next time I see you
I’ll give you more bruises than last week altogether*
He closes the door with a loud slam
The boy unfolds his creation, a simple dresser
Who knew that a young boy’s imagination
Would protect him from all of the horror and pain usually unleashed on him
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 9:27 PM UTC
Her face, flawless and filtered, flows over
my chest, ribs, stomach, hips, fitting the curved
mounds of my body, and even within simplicity
of thread and dye, I sense her presence as her face
hangs from my frame, a statement louder than pillow-lips,
Nancy Sinatra-hair and a glamorous 60’s ***** face.
When paired with leggings and an artfully-distressed denim jacket,
I become a member of the “freshman generation of degenerate
beauty queens,” a hipster fallen to the circumstance of youth,
but I wear her face and the romance of it all reminds me:
we are not defined as Lolitas lost in the hood, or distant,
airy voices in a sea of crude jokes and half-baked skits
meant to highlight shortcomings of a person who doesn’t give
two ***** Lana fits me better than my ribbed, red
sweater and even amidst gods and monsters,
this T-shirt makes pretty last, and I am just as cool.
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
Denim clad godess, smoke machine chariot. Your livelihood is my breath, Take me to your place of solace where I can feel the suns rays emanate from my chest.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 8:40 PM UTC
skyscraper man on seattle time
looms in the corner of swan lake and fry
untouchable denim untouchable blueblack plaid jacket
he's put together with clothespins
he's put together with stipends
he's crammed between taxi cab book ends
skyscraper man on seattle time
stoic as the jet engines roar by
all his friends are magazines all his friends currentbrief
he's got a little future
he's got a few dimes
he's got no father to call out the lies
skyscraper man on seattle time
watches smog children kick ***** on concrete
vulnerable under trees writes his novels in purpleink
he's married once before
he's read crucifixion lore
he's returned his money to the store
skyscraper man on seattle time
looking through spectacles of ***** and brine
the rain falls hard the breeze sweet on the leaves
he's emptying the soul of modern rock n' roll
he's emptying the tray of ashed thought
he's emptying the bank account cold
skyscraper man on seattle time
sheds crinkled skinmemory like the cicada
a twin-sized deathbed deathbed in apt. 203
he's nothing.
he's ever.
he's happened.
skyscraper man on seattle time
carbon copied and eternal as saltwater as rust
invisible and tapping at the runrain window
he's nothing.
he's ever.
he's happened.
skyscraper man on seattle time
climbs himself to the cosmos lightheaded perfection
ethereal visions of fullbloom love and legacy with measure
he's nothing.
he's ever.
he's happened.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 11:04 AM UTC
I'm the morning whisper that punches you in the gut
the winning lottery ticket that you didn't buy
an inconvenience with impeccable timing
the drinks you spill on nameless lovers
i'm the giggle when a dog sniffs your hand
i'm a naked water fight in January for no reason
i'm cold pillows shaped like a former lover
your favorite t-shirt when it's lost
and found
the drip drip in the sink when you wanna sleep
the creepy crawlers you can't shake
the colorful wrapper with nothing inside
a no vacancy sign at the end of the road
your vulnerability when you're most tender
i'll call you names when you're not looking
look at you funny when you're not listening
i'm the sense that doesn't make,
the only sense there is
i'm your senses when you want to shut me out
the wrong L-word at just the right time
i'm your second chance when you need a third
the maybe, when you really wanted a yes
i'm what feels your pain
the broken promise that brings you more-
pain
what turns the tide when you're not looking
i'm a moonlit midnight swim
i'm sometimes butt-naked
your favorite shade of lipstick
i am your guardian angel
the absence you hold
i'm the scenic route after a bump in the road
the sunset drive that saves your soul
i'm the texture of wet sand between your toes
the burn in every tear you've cried
i'm the vintage dresser you found on a rainy day
the song you hate, stuck on repeat
i count the palm trees when you're not looking
i forget lovers lost and found
i am the one who messes up your hair,
just to dry your tears
i am the vault of all your deepest darkest secrets
always inconvenient and never around
i'm laughter when you least expect it
the 4 am call you don't wanna take
i'm the mirror that sells you lies
the denim shorts that makes your **** look really cute
i'm the cherry (on your wedding dress)
a joyride and a swing-set all in one
i'm what turns you on
what turns you away
i'm your throne
your downfall
your ecstatic,
uplifting
wonderful
life.
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 3:01 PM UTC
Denim and Icky Nicky pooping in a tree
p o o p i ng
Denim is 2 dumb 2 understand luvvvv
and icky Nicky is ugly as heck.
Denim wants to marry icky Nicky and have lots of ugly children.
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:02 AM UTC
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
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 1:30 AM UTC
On the tip of my tongue you burned like hot coffee,
With a hit of my blunt you’ve undone my lofty,
made me a softy,
I wont forget.
Denim jacket leaning down, you’ve got room in your throat,
You’ve got words in your coat,
Pockets full of notes.
Ink on your arms that wrap, wrap around me,
Words pushing on your teeth like braces,
Laces,
Up your shoes that walk all around me,
I won't forget.
Maybe whisper it now or tell me tomorrow.
Denim jacket leaning down, tippy toes to kiss your nose.
You’ve made me a softy,
I won’t forget.
Sweet and simply say it from behind those curtains,
Smoke in your nose from my fire lungs,
Stain my breath with your words,
Blessed syllables,
I won’t forget.
Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 10:28 PM UTC
All I saw was an *** - twitching;
as it sashayed through the doorway,
pert n tight n denim clad,
think the legs were rather fine too,
not too sure though,
the *** kinda jiggled in an intoxicating
hypnotic rhythmic fashion,
sorta *** didi *** didi *** *** ***
it was muscular, without being overly developed,
I had a really deep desire to bite it;
chew on it a liddle !
Jun 16, 2010
Jun 16, 2010 at 9:00 PM UTC
together we are a velvet dress
comfortable, warm, high-quality material
knee-length, not too fancy
rich, earthy-green in colour
one strap, a bit quirky?
accentuates the thin waist
smoothly caresses the full hip
effortlessly **** soft and flirtatious
not a casual piece, although it is adaptable
the dress hangs heavily on your shoulders and is strapped to your soul
never collecting dust
sometimes worn around the house on a free evening, just for you
wear me here, wear me there
wear me everywhere, the velvet dress cries
but of course this cannot be done
opt for the denim today, the workwear tomorrow
life says it must be so
let's save ourselves for the serendipitous occasion
knowing that this is the greatest part of our beauty and charm
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 4:10 PM UTC
Ambrose
Ah-kin-
MOO-sir-ee
Lifts a trumpet to his mouth.
Deep breaths blow notes
at right angles
into space.
The sound is worn denim.
The sound is Lauren Bacall.
The beat is urgent and syncopated
just like his last name.
Ambrose
Ah-kin-
MOO-sir-ee
Rests a trumpet by his side.
Reverb:
Ambrose interprets the persistence of sound;
reflections build up and decay
until the sound is absorbed
by the surfaces of this space.
Inhale.
Ambrose,
pulls the trumpet
To his mouth
once again.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
Those Bikes
See the goth heavy metal custom motorcycle
Ride past with a long haired rider
Dressed how they should be dressed
Black jeans t shirt denim leather
Low rider chopper as it should be
With twin coffin saddle bags
What a ride to the other side
Give him Devil fingers\M/!
Then there was a classic looking bike
Parked up alone
And I saw two racing bikes
One with a fairing the other naked
Heard his engine as he passed
A man asked me on the bridge
Where am I going?
Planet Mars on a custom bike
With my chick and loud tunes
Aug 31, 2023
Aug 31, 2023 at 11:48 PM UTC
I didn't sleep again last night
my yesterday is still taking place
as my fingers gently press these keys
so as to not wake my brother
restless,
I realized,
I've seen a sunset
but never a sunrise
the streets were still asleep
the only ones about
only the down and out
the poor black folk
the aimless hipsters
the homeless
the single mothers with three jobs
who wait alone
under a flickering street light
for the bus which will take them
to their deadpan jobs
the puddles from last night's storm
rest with not a ripple
and the pretty little birdies
start finding their voice
restless,
I realized,
after the sunsets
the world opens up her eyes
periwinkle horizons
blend easily with the grey skyline
and the line between man and God blurs
the sky is tropical mango cocktails
and pillows of white Caribbean sand
the smell is left -
like a residue -
chasing after the tail of a storm
but the air is wet to the touch
hinting at repeat of the downpour
and I would've sat on the arm of that denim sofa
hour after hour
until the world was ready to wake up
giving me a chance to sleep off their insecurities,
only,
I felt like writing this poem
only,
I felt like a sunrise
or maybe a sunset?
or just maybe
a god **** supernova
I felt good
brimming with peace in my gut
like a warm fire
restless,
I realized,
that after all is set
I will still love the sunrise
Jun 8, 2013
Jun 8, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
Corduroy
by far
is the sexiest fabric
Zipper wisp you thighs a bit faster
You cat-call of body language
I wanna hear you coming
You are not a denim ******
Not cotton soft
My hands are rough
Let me feel your texture
Of parallel lines that go all the way up
Let me lose your button
You can find it later
Keep your innocence like that bear
In that children’s book you might read
To your own kids someday
Corduroy is ugly
So are we
Has texture
So do we
Is made from finely twisted fibers
Like DNA
Corduroy makes me sweat
Literally
And figuratively
If
We were trapped under a blanket of it
And could not tell the difference between
Scar tissue and fabric
Hair and fabric
I will have to bite you to notice the difference
Unless you holler like corduroy
A sound you could beat me with
Then we would just be a transcendental blanket
Of
This should be burned later
So
When I tell you
I think you’re **** like corduroy
It’s a compliment
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 4:03 PM UTC
The day I knew you died
was the day my brother called
and the day the cat left a half-eaten mouse on the front porch.
Its tail was still there,
and a little bit of pink intestine,
like an exclamation mark.
I swore silently.
Trudging toward the back field that evening,
(the mosquitoes were a *****
I found you in the creek,
half submerged with your *** in the air.
You were covered in dirt and blood.
I put my hands on my hips and swore again.
I could see even from where I was standing
that your windshield was smashed all to hell
and your right front tire was punctured.
I would never ride with you again,
never share those starry skies
as we passed bloated raccoons
and greasy ditches.
Anger lurked behind my eyes.
Your killer was lying a few feet away,
Three broken legs
and a shattered back,
with glassy eyes that stared blankly up at the sky.
In a few days I would have its antlers above the mantelpiece.
But meanwhile
I looked at my brother,
who was standing there sheepishly,
two unbroken hands shoved in his deep denim pockets,
and told him he was paying for the tow.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 10:38 PM UTC