"fishnet" poems
Off the train I hit the streets
and start laughing. This is ridiculous,
incomprehensible. How can innumerable bipeds
have individual inner lives. Why are they doing
what they’re doing? I have no answer
New York City but to also go about my business
in this case prepare for surgery, survival.
But why survive with so many exact replicas
to replace me? A swarm of ants or hive of bees,
social organisms they’re called, climbing
over each other, avoiding bumping and amazingly
making way, anticipating the sudden turns
and straight paths of others, strangers but brothers,
sisters incubating, the cells of a small
***** nodes of a single semi-conscious organism.
The concept of a higher power that cares
for me is also risible yet how else
can I explain the surgeon and his team,
robots and magnetic resonance imaging machines,
all primed and trained to save my life.
They are not particularly interested in what
I do with my time. I am immediately
in love with the Irish brogue of the head nurse,
the Indian skin of the physician’s assistant.
The long extraordinarily thin
fingers of the famous surgeon. All
mine to savor (and the other cancer patients).
Despair, lose all hope
that’s what the sign says at the gates of hell
and at the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center the sign says
Be kind to our customers who are waiting and suffering.
Yesterday’s suicidal thoughts: the mind
is a clever servant, insufferable master. Therefore,
meditate on this: absolute need, dependence on the Other.
I still like Hombre, The Shootist and Ulzana’s Raid
but realize those dead heroes
were subordinate to society: the gun manufacturers who armed them.
Thus, I go for cancer tests, accepting, not predicting results.
Hero accepting help.
A torrential rain following five days of flooding,
tornadoes out west busting up wooden towns
all because too many of us are hoarding plastic, herding electrons.
None of us know how it will end, what the outcome will be
(of our surgery). The best that can be said
is Don’t forget to breathe. And you might
as well believe in that higher power.
Mar 5, 2019
Mar 5, 2019 at 6:00 AM UTC
Of all the ****** that i like,
The best would be of lace and white,
But then again, there's so so much,
There's even knickers with no crotch!?,
Those little bras for beginner *****
Or leather gear, for naughty moods,
And not forgetting Bridget Jones,
Come on girls, we've all got those ones.
Those yummy corsets **** us in,
We'll shake our hips and bear a grin,
To tantalise and tease men so,
Our ***** with tassels on, so guys can, ahem, grow.
Those fishnet stockings cost a bomb,
But ladies, that's why we put them on,
We feel so **** and so do they,
So that's why we get them to pay.
Silk and satin, black or red,
Or going commando instead,
What then girls, do we love these things for,
Because they'll only be scattered on our bedroom floor?...
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 6:51 AM UTC
Its the perfect costume for a superhero goddess, and it makes her feel invincible; fishnet stockings, blazing red bra, heroine hotpants and the clincher; kitten heels.
Bunny can take on the world, now, appropriately dressed. She's got superpowers, alright, the doom-dogs seem to think so, and they're running scared.
Those rumours, that they trade and use and barter, of baby bunny's beautiful mouth, sloe doe eyes, and inexhaustible tongue. It's been said that she can bring an evil tyrant to his knees as she sinks down to her own, it's been said, she's good and bad, so very bad, so very, very good...
But, listen!
*** bunny's been given a new mission; There's a new and timely terror, and the doom-dogs are, of course, the evil source; find and ******* *** bunny, the formidable phallus of doom.
Only you, ***** tawny Queen of Dawn are up to the task. Don your whiskered mask, wriggle your nose once, twice, yummy bunny, and fly, fly! Find the phallus, save the world.
It's your destiny.
You were born to blow the horn for cosmic ****
Jul 28, 2014
Jul 28, 2014 at 4:27 PM UTC
fishnet pantyhose
mexican dinners
men with a big noses
competing, being the winner
women scented like roses
words of praise
cats
getting a yearly raise in pay
the sound outside my window and knowing it's bats
calling in sick to work, and spending the day at play
seeing stupidity and smiling
the laughing of my nieces
writing a good poem without trying
hug by my fiance and falling to pieces
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 10:49 PM UTC
I rolled my ankle last month,
but didn't pay much attention
to the swelling because it didn't feel
like nougat flesh with a pushpin
center. It felt like skin, tendons,
and fishnet bones.
But now, when I make my bed,
I have to waste two or three
soft pillows at the foot of it.
So, I'm left with the burgundy ones
from the couch that I tried to patch
with boot liner and an eighth-grade
comprehension of sewing.
I stuck a rat's thimble on my ring
finger, so I could push the straw-thin
needle through the beefy seam.
No such luck.
Finished the stitching
with a Band-Aid beneath
the thimble. And I left
the cheetah-print liner hanging
off like a piece of skin,
hoping it'd fix itself.
Feb 18, 2015
Feb 18, 2015 at 11:22 AM UTC
I had the funniest dream the other night
I was doing something with paintings in the dream
I was picking them up and looking at them
I was in a public place, there was other people around
In the corner of my eye I could make out this girl
She was sitting on a table talking to another girl who was sitting down
She was a Goth girl, a real life Goth girl
She had these big laced boots and the fishnet stockings
She had necklaces and jewellery and the black dress on
She had the black eyeliner and very pronounced lipstick
And she had her hair done in a funny way that I didn't particularly like
But I can't remember now to describe (maybe it was short or shaven a bit)
Now I wasn't staring at her, I was only regarding her clandestinely out of the corner of my eye
It's like I was saying "Wow! There's a real Goth girl
I'd never met or spoken to a Goth girl before
Suddenly it's like... it's like she notices me for the first time
And she starts watching me... she's looking right at me
Now I'm a bit chuffed by this...flattered
I'm wondering why she'd be interested in an old geezer like me
Anyway just then I decide to glance at her pretending I've only just seen her for the first time
For a moment our eyes they meet
And y'know, she slips me the sweetest smile I've ever seen in my whole life
It's so warm and endearing/welcoming, open and innocent.. so cute
It's like she's saying "Hello there you, I'd love to get to know you"
Me! I don't know what to do, I'm blown away,
Gulp! I'm all at sea and I'm floundering
But I got to do something... so I kinda smile back at her and give her a little wink
Then I quickly look back at my paintings
The next time I dare to look over she's right there, right in front of me, this fabulous creature...in all her wonderful terribleness LoL
It's obvious she wants to make herself known to me
It all proves too much though... I chicken out
I pull out of the dream
I guess... I'm only a Shy Boy really.
Nov 2, 2023
Nov 2, 2023 at 1:33 PM UTC
As the party dies down
and the beer has been drunk
we sit on the couch and talk.
Her lips move
but her eyes speak.
I lose myself in their conversation.
Her fishnet covered leg finds me.
She doesn't move it and I'm glad.
"Why is the beer gone?"
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 10:13 AM UTC
I saw her everyday
As I walked home from school
She would stand against that same “No Smoking” sign
I never really understood
How she could stand against that sign
And disobey it everyday
Or maybe she didn’t understand it
I mean after all she did stand there
In her fishnet stockings and 5 inch heels with money slipping out of those stockings
Smoking
Just smoking until there was nothing left to smoke on that ole cig
She smoked that thing religiously everyday
As if it would make her immortal
Although, ironically, it did the exact opposite
Maybe it’s like her
So stereotypical
But maybe she’s the exact opposite
She stands in those infamous heels and fishnet stockings
Like a stereotypical *****
But maybe she just got off her minimum wage part time job at the costume shop down the street
Maybe she’s not a stereotypical mother
But that doesn’t mean she’s a stereotypical ***** either
And she’s also not a freak nor an outcast
Just because she is NOT a stereotype
She’s just a person
Just a woman
Standing at that same “No Smoking” sign
In her favorite 5 inch heels and fishnet stockings
Who likes to smoke so much she may even think it’d make her immortal
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 6:55 PM UTC
sunscreen , wet cement. i taste sweat
at the collarbone crevice below yr neck. all of us
hot spring eyes , pussing blisters bleeding down
naked heels. it's ******* hot here in the shade
of heaven. i want off the ride
popping pimples at the bathroom sink
yellowing from the blood , from the dirt we
pick up by touching each other
but i run the tongue , baby, the whole
apartment smells like a bath bomb. i need
to burst open beneath your mouth, slice the grape fruit in
thin pieces. imagine the day when my hair grows back:
then we'll know suffering has learned to love the space
under the bed
where our bodies used to be
so in this night terror
i play the fishnet stockings of a long
legged woman. struggling against
them, you drown between my thighs
like this. we squirm in the humidity of the night
like this.
then in the next,
i go missing at a family party and you look for me,
i'm waiting to surprise you in a childhood closet, i'm in
the kitchen washing dishes so you get to put yr hands
around me. the world knows i'm in love with you so no one
will complain.
and every terror begins as gentle as this, when
you round the corner to the bathroom and i'm in
the tub. what are you doing
i'm smiling
what are you doing
what does it look like i'm doing
that funny little animal , how badly you want it
to be out loud. then we can't paint the goat blood on our
door, we can't let god pass us over. yr knees are locked
and my veins are loaded. here, you hold the gun. the lamb
is ready for slaughter.
a bunch of empty guts, some tylenol buried
in clammy hands you come in an hour
back to knock on the door: i told
them you got sick
thank you
don't come home tonight
thank you
i powder my nose and the holiday
lights are strung before thanksgiving. you
will keep climbing mountains with the blonde
arm hairs of the glad hearts. you are too good to
go looking in lower places;
you are too good to **** a hound of hell.
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 6:25 PM UTC
Remember how I'd smoke after school
outside your classroom window
watching you pack up your briefcase,
pulling your arms through your blazer sleeves?
Four cigarettes in a ring
between my thumb and fingertips,
an "okay" sign.
You preferred jean dresses with the hips cut out,
knee-high fishnet socks,
my hair wrapped curiously in bandana red
with my eyes outlined in black.
I stole condoms and Twinkies,
brought them to your apartment
after you'd call to unwrap me
like penny candy
on the mattress in the middle of your floor,
each tear in synch with the teeth
of your zipper releasing.
A green wrapper
and an empty trash can
next to my book bag.
You licked your fingers
after the last bite.
Mar 8, 2014
Mar 8, 2014 at 9:58 PM UTC
21 years or older but I asked to use the bathroom first.
Then I slip in when the bouncer isn't looking.
Naked bodies hanging on poles.
Men, smoke, 90's rap music.
On the stage, they bend backwards like dogs.
Dogs staring back, mirroring the position
and her self - esteem.
A woman approaches two men at the table in front of me.
Her fishnet wrap shows she's naked.
******* grinding, tossing hair.
Some slimy guys buy us drinks from a table a distance away.
Dorena gulps next to me.
I leave mine alone.
Absorbed into this vision because I have to immerse
myself in this because I must write.
I need to tell people that her hand slapped her ******
like it did something wrong.
She made her hand do that because that man
was giving her dollars as I watched them slide off her back,
her legs; the sides of them.
She gave his friend a dance and a magic trick.
Setting fire to matchsticks she placed on her ******* and her ****
He blew the flame away.
The dollars blew to the ground
and after her performance she went on her knees,
and picked up the remains.
Her dress, the money, her composure.
Afterward, she lit up a Capri, the type of cigarette
I craved all night.
I bummed one off her and she fled out of sight.
Jun 27, 2013
Jun 27, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
the unattainable girl in cotton dress with her untouched hands
her perfections body and soul are store purchased at trending boutiques
she illustrates the room into vivid colour with her casual presence
she becomes the motion in the still life drawing you live
she is the utterance of everything to be attained by dreaming
by hope
for you
the unattainable
she leads you through the broken gate
a backyard overgrown and
past the rusting skeleton of a child's swing set
night has rendered it life
and it looms large in the minds eye with terrible
wrath for its cheated years
inside the bare room
streetlight filtered by the boarded up window
sound is muffled in here
her voice strangely stagnant and heavy
as she clumsily removes her shirt
laughing a small embarrassed laugh
so unlike her cool and convincing hardcase appearance
the two of you rest a few hours cupped in eachothers arms
till daylight leeches your sleepyheads of dreams
but the tattered cover of your romance novel
is by no means a feat of strung out fairy's on a mission to condemn
they only want recompense for the time they spent wrapped in the
soiled leather sheets entertaining some middle aged naked man
and his sole desire to be pretty
she sees all this
she sits in the dry corner
eyes wide but unseeing
a song of terrors paused on her lips
the reality's of reality has not yet sunk in
but its soft spoken voice is whispering to her now
it sets its christmas card well wishes on her mantle
it lays its warm gifts on her bed
careworn toys of her bitter embraces
sit in the grey snow abandoned like her lovers
now that she found her nirvana
she will spend her days
in hard red leather and fishnet
plying the flesh pots and the mystery's exposed of naughty naughty
the unattainable girl is just a photograph now
one dimensional image of a four dimensional demon girl
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 10:41 PM UTC
my neighbour came over,
quick impromptu
into the dog collar
and you have your murderer
and the priest;
guilt ridden as if by small pox
she sat on my bed:
no ulterior motive,
no auxiliaries of conscience to back-up
now; a clear would-be **** victim...
jewish so i had to stress my fascination
with the jewish mysticism of kabbalah;
and i did so in all earnest
asking whether i said i am eh yeh correctly:
also the whole bit of original interpretation
the secrecy of the rabbinical
aHa aHe
males as rigid as consonants
women as fluid as vowels ********
missing accents on eden's language of globalization
that's short of tartan english of glasgow
with key stress punctures of trans-punctuation
crafted for either serious distinction on consonants,
or ridiculous aesthetics when given to vowels
of parisian stilettos: fancy ah fancy nah fancy
a mistress in fishnet leggings? yes? no? maybe?
undecided i see. trophy wife material... next!
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
Under misted august sky
where the fishnet boats dot the Matla River
I stand drunken on the wild mangrove.
This abandoned out of world noon
when the river breeze whispers
you are deathless
my blood paints in my eyes her face.
Only the estuarine heron
wings smelling of sun and fish
is my timeless witness!
Aug 24, 2014
Aug 24, 2014 at 11:30 AM UTC
Demarcation embossed on her skin, puncture point left with a pin
Fishnet stockings for the masses, Wiccan enjoyed in classes.
Personality goes from void to resigned, alternate progression good and primed.
Keen eyed father takes it all to heart, seeing his daughter’s wrist opened with a part.
Packs up and moves them all down to San Tropez
Hoping freedom in peace would take it all away.
Clean cut, concise and thin, award worthy with a stellar grin
An esteemed academic decathlete, salacious in the recesses of his sleep
Pressure mounted at too harsh an angle, fell back on those that dangle
Clean and cut with a proclivity for exposure, an outlet to relinquish his composure.
Packed up and moved down to San Tropez
His father thought it could take it all away
Fed and bred on notions of sin, premature birth, no more spin.
Baggy-eyed and caught in heat, the reasons that led her to cheat.
Husband took it as the answer to a problem, the baby could no longer haunt him.
She fell back into a deadlock stare, her husband thought it was a prolonged glare.
He packed them up and moved down to San Tropez
No amount of travel could take that all away.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 12:59 AM UTC
I feel this inhuman suffocation
when I step out into
that officially sponsored
fog machine artificial haze
to start the music blaring from
speakers that don't say a thing
Spitting throat lumps and grinds
lurching like scary monsters
controlled by raving mad super creeps
hiding behind walls of
electronic lies
and vinyl appropriations
committed to automation
in
beats making stage cages swing like
stray lanterns filled with
questionable electrocuties -
wild tarts that can't be broken
but you can stare all you want
at
Black-light-blemish-broken-razor-testimony
obscured with slashed fishnet and
splashed neon body paint
Move to the wavelengths
going to grave lengths
as
my dead beats facilitate this
Deja Vu machine world
of
backdoor audition submission
courtesy of half massed scrubstep poser pseudo-players
and maneaters planted on dance floors
Wearing short skirts low cut shirts
high heels long hair and plenty of
emotional baggage
and
I find myself feeling somewhat sorry
and guiltily enticed by the decadent
conspicuous consumption and sinister
seduction I cannot escape
until
The song crescendos and I slam an invisible hand
into the wreck chords
from now until the end of rhyme
I want to stop the whole thing
but this is what I signed up for
this is my punishment
so
with reluctant crossfader switchblade hands
I scratch the noise back into the air
and out of my head
because
the
beatings
must
go
on
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 1:16 PM UTC
Dedicated to Beverly & ?? [&c., &c., &c.]
[this poem contains multiple characters;
I didn't write any of it, but strangely, it's all true]
She was wearing black leather ankle boots
& torn fishnet stockings;
The top was black and sleeveless,
w/ fishnet covering her stomach
up to the frayed hem of the fabric of the shirt;
All around the room there was a buzz of voices,
all the people seeming a whirl of fishnet stockings,
bright makeup & colorful costumes;
Strutting across the stage removing fishnet stockings,
her long silky legs drawing all the attention;
She was wearing a black tank top,
red tartan mini-skirt w/ fishnet tights & black
leather, knee high boots; Her hair was long
& deep purple & her short skirt
revealed a shaved snooch & gorgeous legs clad in fishnet stockings;
The black fishnet top, and the tight t-shirt
with the skull on it were quite perfect for the occasion;
I opened my eyes and found myself staring up at the pair of legs
in knee high boots & red fishnet stockings
beneath a red and white schoolgirl skirt [the woman wearing them old
enough to be my grandmother]. PVC, fishnet,
rubber, Lycra, velvet & lace
were worked into corsets, coats & masks; Finally she settled on a black corset dress,
her skull necklace & black combat boots
that went up to her shin & black fishnet tights;
She stomped her way across the room,
grabbed me painfully by the arms
w/ her black fishnet sleeves
& ruffled collar shirt & planted a kiss on me;
she wore black fishnet stockings & stilettos
that wobbled underneath her feet as she stepped;
She then stepped into a long
black skirt, and w/out much effort,
managed to get into her black fishnet stockings;
I pulled out a black long dress,
black fishnet stockings & see-through undershirt;
but she was already dressed in a short denim skirt,
black fishnet stockings and high red sandals,
& she was wearing a blood red tank top,
black miniskirt & fishnet stockings;
She was fairly small, about 5 ft. even,
appearing only slightly tall in sling-back stilettos
& fishnet stockings w/ a red tube top
w/ black mesh on top of it;
I looked down at her short tartan skirt
& bare feet in fishnet stockings, her black nail polish
looking good, so was her ripped black tank top:
I gathered the long dress in one hand,
pulling the material up as far as her waist,
revealing the black fishnet stocking tops
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:33 AM UTC
//
if a woman
drops her clothing
and shows what is
too precious to
be shown even on
film,
she has her miranda rights,
her indecent exposure trials
and ever dollar used to bail her
out of a cold cell were they offered
her a hospital gown
but she also has the
eyes that follow her up
the street, asking, begging
to touch
and if that woman says no,
or says nothing
than the woman still has
control of what is done
to her body,
control of every hand that tries to
pry away her god-given
right to be safe in her own skin
//
if a girl decides to
wear a short shirt,
or fishnet tights,
or bright lipstick
that costs anywhere from ninety-nine cents
to ninety dollars,
and she applies it with a heavy hand,
like her mascara and eyeshadow,
then she is still
human, she is still
a valid human being
who does not deserve
your time and voice
to call her a ****
or say something along
the lines of
don't go out looking like that
*or you'll get *****
but **** is never,
ever, ever
the fault of the victim
//
if a woman
or girl
decides to cover her hair,
to abide by her
religion, the religion that
held the hands of every woman
in her family,
from sister to great-great-great-great-great
grandmother
she is not a threat
to our country
she is a member of our society,
a valuable and beautiful one, at that
who's culture can guide us
to be even kinder
in the name of god
and if a woman
or girl
decides to long sleeves
and a high-necked top
with a long skirt
alongside her hijab,
she is not matronly,
she is modest,
and modest is as beautiful
as a gucci crop-top
or a pair of sky-high louboutins
//
NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
*there were men
who were there for us,
who fought for us,
and then now,
there is a man who will fight
us as we march,
so we need to be strong
and support each other,
remember the golden rule,
and know each of our gods
would want this for
our world*
Oct 27, 2017
Oct 27, 2017 at 8:31 PM UTC
A couple wuz beading up
for a chi chi day
She drunkenly laughed
**** stained her dress
A olive skin woman
in golden glitter pasties
Offered neon *** shots
near 10 in the morning
A chubby girl dressed
in a black fishnet body suit
selling face paintings
while her supple *******
Jiggled in your face
A black man occupied
A most different plain
Sat behind two chess boards
wasn't gettin paid
Two SAP cars parked
At Royal Sonesta curb
idling to taxi exec sappers
back to the friendly skies
****** whippin glitter girl
Shakin her money maker
Lookin hard at her wares
What the hell she sellin?
Across the street
miked up bible thumper
Doin his groove thing
Raged against the ***** show
Ca ching ca ching ca ching
I ducked a bity bee
Flying at my face
I'm walkin Bourbon
Full of mighty grace
Hard Rock Guys
selling cannabis lollis
crowded corners bumpin
Ain't no trollies
boom box blastin
back beat samples
Who Dat Jazz?
muskrat rambles
Three card monte
Obstructive beggers
Kids banging on
5 gallon drums
Gimme a dime mister
Louie Armstrong Park
Congo Square
Where it at?
Gotta get there
***** Glitter still barking
Mardi ****** Gras tees
Snapchat Me Your *****
Ducked another bee
Kid put his two pails
In mid of the rue
Gotta pay the toll
Whatcha gunna do?
Music:
Mardi Gras Music
From NOLA Notes
2/18/17
Feb 27, 2017
Feb 27, 2017 at 1:58 PM UTC
i.
dear poetry, we met when i was four,
you were count lestat, and it was love
at first sight. you were made of bone
and bane, and razors, i was a mosochist
and you were a black widow, i would
know, i was there, trying to pry
open all of your eight legs, looking
for the amrita.
ii.
dear poetry, if i were to answer all
of the thirteen questions you have ever
asked me, the answers would be,
no, no, yes, march the thirty second,
"how frail a human heart must be -",
diacetylmorphine without the butterfly,
mother, yes, barely, jolene, you don't
love me, contractility, and no.
iii.
dear poetry, you have pretty legs.
iv.
dear poetry, i am an ugly archetype of denuded
adolescence and i think you smell
like teenagers and a leather hacked smothered
in *** and black labels and ck perfume,
and a pound of god.
v.
dear poetry, if sleep is the brother to death,
where does my mother lie,
before ribbons of aubade
seek the flower in the sky?
vi.
dear poetry, today i don't think i love you anymore.
vii.
dear poetry, if you were humanised,
you would be ugly. you would be defleshed,
you would be ugly. you would be marked constantly by
ugly people and you would bleed ugly people.
viii.
dear poetry, today i might ********** my muses,
i might make them wear fishnet leggings,
with ****** heels, i might give them *****
to suit others that **** them better than i do, and
it is all your fault.
ix.
dear poetry, i promise myself i would not speak
to you anymore, at least not in words, but
we both know poets are nothing but
liars, don't we?
x.
dear poetry, i am not a poet, all the poets are dead.
they died for you.
xi.
dear poetry, i am writting you thirteen letters
a year, they are ugly, like i am, they spell
an ugly word you would never speak of. you
will be anatomised, i will stuff you with
consangunuty, i will re-invent you.
xii.
dear poetry, you are older than me,
i am twenty, but you are only ten,
i am ripe, bruised, plucked from purple lips,
nothing is ageless.
xiii.
dear poetry, i am going to break you,
grind you in a mortar, roll you up,
into a blunt, and i am going to smoke
you along with the angels.
Nov 30, 2010
Nov 30, 2010 at 5:27 AM UTC
some girls like it sweet,
an innocent angelic face, plaid mini skirts and unbuttoned white collared shirts, who goes to church every Sunday praying to god she’s not a sinner living in a yellow house with a white picket fence and a rose garden she’s an angel with the devil’s heart
some girls like it sour,
red lipstick stains on her neck, tight leather and fishnet tights, come home with bruised knuckles, isn’t religious but she’s on her knees every night
she’s a natural born sinner who is beautifully broken
how you like it
May 21, 2018
May 21, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC
*He used to paint my nails.
He'd paint em
pinks reds and orange
he'd paint them blue
sometimes too
mostly black.
He'd make tiny daisy
flowers all around.
He used to put lipstick
on me
he'd trace my out lip line
he'd use
black or brown liner
making them fuller
he'd tell me
they need to look fuller.
He use to dress me up
he'd get fishnet thigh highs
he'd have me step into
a mini dress
made of synthetic leather
zebra prints all around.
He'd follow with
a black tight
leather half shirt
gloves long and white
always would follow.
He use to do my hair
he'd comb front to back
for 45mins
it'd shine and glow
falling off my shoulders
cascading down my back
it almost touched my ****
He used to put me in heels
he'd picked always the reds
I didn't like these red heels
I stood almost to his chest.
He used to tell me
to dance.
He'd say move my
hips like this
in a circular motion.
He'd say stand
in the middle
on the dinning
room table
dance for me
he'd say
dance
for poppop.
He use to touch me
when I danced
He used to
touch himself too
I cried.
He'd become meaner
He'd say don't
make me punish you
I felt punished already.
He'd get undress
I'd cry louder
begging him not to.
He's slapped
my face
I always fell
I'd stand up
fast or he'd
hit me again.
He'd lay me on the table
keeping me trapped
in the middle
he'd fill me every night
I'd cry
He'd laugh.
***He use to paint my nails.
(until my birth father shot him)*
*Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright ©
Ayeshah
K.C.L.N 1977 - Present YEAR(s)
All right reserved ®***
May 13, 2012
May 13, 2012 at 1:07 AM UTC
bingle bangle trip top
flipper wing ****
fingling zinger bop bop
tribble slapper bang
herpe derper webble wob
frankish glub glub beetroot
shingle rampart flip rob
wipple fishnet bangtoot
markly haper mushmouth
yungdid crassly freeten
biddle froto down south
sharple rag tag neepin
oddler dang trumpet
***** gnomey smashhash
villet bridle crumpet
creamy lopless bashrash
oh, the wonderful sounds of letters
amazing in your diversity
always makes me feel a bit better
but not as far as perversity
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
…
You can cut me up,
carve me into any shape you desire.
Cut me down, even,
Wrap lights and tinsel around my dying limbs
until I cease to amuse.
Then throw me out,
to the street with the rest of them:
the girls you grew bored of.
As we sit on the curb,
fishnet tights and short skirts,
we're no taller than a Bonsai.
We could be beautiful and strong
with love and care,
But instead we've grown harsh and gnarled
trying to sell it instead.
…
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 10:52 PM UTC
No boy will ever
want to **** me
if I forget
to put on makeup
in the mornings
lips red as Eve's forbidden fruit
succulent enough to
bite
tongue
devour
go down
cuz my nose don't
look so My-Big-Fat-Greek-Wedding
mountainous-side-profile
when it's caked in highlighter
if I have short hair
because short hair means
I'll look too masculine
in the ninth grade I
had a pixie cut
faith
trust
pixie dust
I could feel
my light burning out
(I never did believe in myself)
if I'm not thin
starve
binge
purge
two finger diet
VSCO diet
have you seen
the lovely girls
on the internet
in their
tight bodysuits
Coke Zero
figures
MVP
VIP
they'll get first access
to his ****
if I'm a *****
cuz how will anyone know
what you've really
got to flaunt
when you have to wear
a uniform to school
frumpy plaid kilt
white polo shirt
every button a barrier
like the notches
on his belt
tie coiled
a noose
around your neck
every casual day
I wear fishnet stockings
***** necklines
with push up bras
even though
I'm already a D
cuz I gotta get that D
gotta compensate
for being a ****** somehow
if I don't shave my
legs
stomach
*****
three days before high school graduation
I bought a thong
and got my first Brazilian wax
even though I didn't have
still don't have
a boyfriend
but I wanted him
to be my boyfriend
thought I should be prepared
thought maybe when he saw me
clad in
cleavage
periwinkle
floor-length gown
blue Converse peeking out
from underneath the tulle
I'd be his
Belle of the Ball
that he'd
take me
**** me
love me
but how could any boy
ever love me
in all of my
warped-perspective
grief-possessive
passive-aggressive
self-obsessive
manic-depressive
glory
how could any boy
ever love me
after reading
this poem?
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 9:51 PM UTC