"housewives" poems
74
A Lady red—amid the Hill
Her annual secret keeps!
A Lady white, within the Field
In placid Lily sleeps!
The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms—
Sweep vale—and hill—and tree!
Prithee, My pretty Housewives!
Who may expected be?
The Neighbors do not yet suspect!
The Woods exchange a smile!
Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird—
In such a little while!
And yet, how still the Landscape stands!
How nonchalant the Hedge!
As if the “Resurrection”
Were nothing very strange!
10.3k
Cute
Pretty
Beautiful
****
While most women love hearing these words from the lips of their lovers for the evening,
I don't.
They aren't simple complements, they're ways to make me vulnerable.
Now I just sound like a white girl with issues, yeah I know.
But the truth is that everyone who has told me those words as only wanted what's between my legs.
And half the time, when they got it, they left.
I'm tired of men seeing me at 8am with no makeup or heels
Looking at me as if I had lied to them
Because I'm obviously looking for love in the wrong places
One night stands don't make hoes into housewives
But they will certainly turn housewives into hoes.
May 22, 2015
May 22, 2015 at 3:56 PM UTC
Long walks at night--
that's what good for the soul:
peeking into windows
watching tired housewives
trying to fight off
their beer-maddened husbands.
9.4k
Ripples riddle the mirror,
Below, faint shapes shift
Elegant forms float here and there,
Little legs thunder, leaving a gentle wake
in lieu of turmoil.
The air is thick, the sun falling,
Already lost behind billowing storm clouds
Etched chaotically on the horizon.
Invisible but for the ubiquitous light.
It is the dragonflies time,
A darting zip and an effortless flutter.
From surfacing **** to towering Reed,
Searching for something we can only pretend to know.
Determined housewives, faces set,
Arms pumping and hips swaying
Their Anatidean waddle so fitting
Their quacks, a wall of stereo.
A lone rusted sign warns of gators,
but of signs, there is that one alone.
No rogue bubbles or beady eyes,
no ticking of swallowed clocks,
no suspicious splashes.
nothing.
My battery is now as low as the sun,
and my pen is as empty.
A not so subtle poke in the ribs
from a universe in protest of the
bad poetry being inked.
c'est la vie
or as we say in English
**** it
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
Long days seem so much longer.
Distance does not make the heart grow fonder.
You’ve conquered the empire of my subconscious.
Your crusade so short,
Yet I hope your reign continues for eons.
We’re far past passive flatteries,
Instead, we fill each other’s hearts with vows.
You mean them now,
But what about a few months?
What if you decide I’m not what you want?
The torment I am slowly approaching,
Consumes my distant soul.
I can hear the sounds of futuristic loathing,
From when you decide this love has taken it’s toll.
So tell me.
How can I pay this inevitable toll?
How can I save us from Cupid’s malicious tyranny?
His arrow is too far lodged within me,
I cannot remove it.
I can only push it farther and farther
Into my heart until it falls out of my back.
But this arrow, trenchant.
Cupid, the sharpest of marksmen.
Yet colorblind, he is.
He sees not what colors his targets represent.
He draws his bow for the pure love of marksmanship.
Sometimes, yet not often,
He will hit the intended target.
But the odds are scarce.
His subjects are often punctured,
And connected to one whom reciprocated Fate’s desire.
Yet this time…
This time…
Cupid must have hit a target of Fate’s approval.
For thrice he has missed.
This time He and Fate are in sync.
This wound may stretch over time,
But the arrow shall remain firmly lodged within my *****
***** and immovable.
Until you kick it through my backside.
But until then,
I can only endure.
I can only be woo wounded.
I can only survive,
Another ambush of the militant called Cupid.
But I will do it for you,
For by you,
I’ve been so divinely seduced.
Wooed by your lips.
Not by your kiss,
But by the music,
Which your mandibles so express.
I desire not to seal this wound,
But to evade its’ repercussions.
For I have endured a similar wound thrice.
He is winged as if an angel,
Yet Was Lucifer not once an angel as well?
Cupid is an impostor.
A spy of Agony, himself.
He prays on the young, the old, the strong, and the weak.
He cares not who he obliterates in his crusades.
He is a bloodthirsty heathen.
He makes scoundrels of Saints,
And Harlots of Housewives.
Saint Valentine is no Saint.
He is Satan’s nightmare.
At first, his arrows are ecstasy,
But like a cancer,
His poison-saturated arrows
Seep deep within every crevice of your body.
They consume you as if enriched with ******
And eventually rot within your *****
Until it is nothing but dust and a memory.
One day I will assassinate Fate’s Malicious militant,
The one we call Cupid.
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 1:25 AM UTC
While Zafar takes his crop to town
Businessmen snort ******
Teens buy bundels to fill their veins
With housewives Oxycontin reins
The Generals demand their Percs
Technocrats love Dilaudid's quirks
While drones fly over Zafar's field
Counting flowers for next year's yield
r 9Jan14
Jan 9, 2014
Jan 9, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
I hear the thunder meddling
its way among the raindrops
that permeate through sunlight
and realize
that the weather is a motif
for God's emotional prognosis.
God is but a ******
he and I stammer upon the same boat.
Our existence makes a pair
of helplessly hanging doppelgangers,
orbs of confusion that contract
whiplash with every turn they make.
Two repressed housewives
that put all their hopes and dreams
in a shit-stained smile.
This collision of light and malevolance
is but His way of symbolizing
my shame-patronized indecision
in a way that makes people tear up
at the joy of beauty.
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:50 AM UTC
She had no desire to be a kept woman in a Tahoe with two point five kids
Give her a car that runs, a man to sing to her, and the open road
She doesn't want a house in the burbs and a gang of desperate housewives
She's rather live in a van or a tent and carry on with a man that can hunt
She doesn't want a wedding day and a white picket fence
Let her run in the wild and make love under the stars
*"Wild man
Where is my wild man
Lets stand at the edge of the world
and conquer it together."*
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 8:46 PM UTC
the grating voices of neighbors unsuccessfully singing Celine Dion ballads
the monotonous mechanical humming of the metal factory
the squealing of housewives watching an afternoon soap opera
the blaring siren of a firetruck racing with tragedy
the clunks and clangs of a nearby construction site
the roaring of the engine of an overloaded jeepney
the chiming of laughter from kids playing in the streets
the calls of the street vendor peddling sugary cotton candy
the whining of the dog begging to run around outside
this is the music of life in the outskirts of the city
Jun 24, 2014
Jun 24, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
My girlfriend was so pretty
And normal as could be
But then something horrible happened
And changed her entirely
One day she was sipping coffee
A spider fell into her cup
It was too late when she gagged
And realized she had swallowed the spider up
The next morning when she woke up
And scratched her sleepy head
She discovered that overnight she had grown
Eight spider legs and a giant spider head
She screamed as she crawled out the door
And shrieked when she looked into the mirror
Her spider senses tickled and twitched
And made my poor girlfriend quiver
Her life has never been the same
Being half a spider and half a lady
At first I wasn't sure I could continue dating her
I mean, just imagine starting a family and having a spider baby!
Sometimes I think and wonder
What to do with our lives
Normal is seeing your girlfriend shopping
Not chilling upside down from the ceiling watching Desperate Housewives
Sometimes its quite funny
To see her browsing at a store
Where she’d usually buy a pair of shoes
Now she’d have to buy three pairs more
When I couldn’t take her shopping
And tried to run off with the guys
She spun her spiderweb and caught me
And took me by surprise
I’m so sick of her spider antics
I really wish we were done
At first she was a lot of nice things
But now my spider girlfriend is no longer fun
I took her out to dinner
And the only thing she ate
Was a plate of fried houseflies
And a glass of lemonade
When I tried to hug her
Her eight legs wrapped me tight
They gave me such a shock
Eight legs were such a hideous sight!
I couldn't take it anymore
I broke it off with her and made her understand
But now I really regret my thoughtless decision
Because now my girlfriend is dating Spiderman.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 5:42 AM UTC
The bourgeoisie?
I loath them,
and I hope they buy my poems!
The critics?
They know nothing,
and I hope they hail my poems!
The intellectuals?
Dumber than pigeons,
and I hope they canonize my poems!
Unabashedly,
I'm not afraid to admit it:
I write for fame and riches,
and nothing really more.
Yes, yes, make no secret of it,
I wish only to shock you,
arouse and repulse you,
****** you,
with mindless,
gore-splattering violence,
and heart-throbbing ***
along on every page.
****** and ***** gore, and blood,
how else are my sales to flood?
It's art for arts' sake,
or something to the effect of that,
whatever makes me edgy,
socially relevant,
to scholars postmodern,
housewives bored,
and teenagers yearning,
to read ***** words.
So keep it then in mind,
my lovely readers you,
I very much like infamy,
and piles of money too;
be sure to buy my books,
praise me,
“Fresh and new!”
So that I may hire cooks,
to save time writing verse,
the very verses you adore,
lambasting the very rich and poor.
Rampant materialism,
spiritual decay,
what else do you
*******
want me to say?
A saint of the lowly,
the offbeat too,
voicing the obscure,
and the unheard and the
blah, blah, blah,
whatever it is,
I really don't care
quite honestly,
bluntly,
I'm being true,
I write for the fame
and the riches,
not you!
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:23 PM UTC
511
If you were coming in the Fall,
I’d brush the Summer by
With half a smile, and half a spurn,
As Housewives do, a Fly.
If I could see you in a year,
I’d wind the months in *****
And put them each in separate Drawers,
For fear the numbers fuse—
If only Centuries, delayed,
I’d count them on my Hand,
Subtracting, till my fingers dropped
Into Van Dieman’s Land.
If certain, when this life was out—
That yours and mine, should be
I’d toss it yonder, like a Rind,
And take Eternity—
But, now, uncertain of the length
Of this, that is between,
It goads me, like the Goblin Bee—
That will not state—its sting.
2.7k
Party like a rock star
Pretend to be elegant and wear sundresses
Remember to smile and wave at the desperate housewives, I choose to offend
I'm inconsiderate
My charismatic side makes up for everything
So blow me a kiss and flirtatious wink
I will ignore the fact you have a plastic grin
I hate to say it, love you're not my friend
Hey, don't worry I will do this again
Contaminated, I hope to infect the ticky-tack world
Please don't vanquish my plot of sin
Don't forget to bring a bikini (optional) and gallon of whiskey
May 11, 2016
May 11, 2016 at 6:59 PM UTC
All the pretty birds
perched on leafy branches
chirp to the waking morning,
“I am here. Where are you?
I am here. Where are you?
I am here. Where are you?
I am here. Where are you?”
And the puppy dogs
all starve for something
While the cats of fortune
laze about the alleyways.
But the pretty birds
all the morning long,
“I am here. Where are you?”
The tardy businessmen
and their non-fat lattes
squirm in BMWs,
Honking at traffic
with the most colorful swears,
“I am here! I am here!
I am here! I am mad! I am here!”
High-octane housewives
power walk the parks,
Gabbing. And the old folks
tossing breadcrumbs to the ducks,
Mumble to long gone loved ones,
“Where are you? Where are you?
Where am I? Where are you?”
But those ****** birds-
Those pretty, ****** little birds-
They have it figured out.
They know the secrets
to Happiness:
‘I am here.
Where are you?’
Nov 9, 2011
Nov 9, 2011 at 4:27 AM UTC
i wish i wasn't so afraid of my forehead.
afraid i'll brush my bangs just the wrong way and someone will remark
"my god! that girl looks weird with her forehead showing."
afraid like i could change a part of my face.
i guess i could if i was one of those rich ******* on "housewives of ---"
or jwow on jersey shore
i could go shopping for new noses
and larger cheek bones.
like changing a feature of my face will make me more wantable
when it's the crap that comes out of my heart people don't like
instead
i wish i could bare my forehead
stick my middle finger right up there for all to see
but i am afraid of my forehead
what is a forhead?
just a bit of skin
just a little forehead
that is what scares
this redheaded leopard
this is why lionesses hide in kitchens
majestic ************* that should be out there running things
this is why there are no women presidents
because we are afraid of
ourselves
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 6:38 AM UTC
my mother always
used to stress
the importance
of opening my
mirrored closet
doors at night,
so they wouldn't
reflect my night-
mares back at
me;
"it's too much
sadness for
sleeping."
but i never listened,
feng shui being
another silly
pastime or
science fit for
housewives --
how wrong i
was with the
stars, perhaps
i am again
mistaken.
maybe if i had
just kept those
**** doors
open annually,
these putrid
thoughts of
mine would
escape into
the ethers and
fade into non-
existence instead
of polluting my
mind and dying
themselves.
listen to your
mothers.
nothing good
can come of
doing otherwise.
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
I live in north Florida
That's just a hop, skip, and a jump
From the land known as Georgia
Where "Honey Boo Boo" holds court with her mom
If'n you don't know "Honey Boo Boo"
Your in for a treat or more than one
She's a multi car train wreak
That you can't turn your eyes away from
First let me explain the state of Georgia
So this family ya'll will understand
Not long ago they re-dirted both paved roads
Said progress was getting out of hand
So with that said and done
And formalities out of the way
Lets turn our attention back to our star attraction
And see what she has to say
Her fame started on Toddlers & Tiaras
Reality shows we all seem to love
From The Crazed Housewives to The Kardashion's
America can not get enough
And since it's on T.V. it's gotta be true
Have you ever tried her drink sensation
Of Red Bull and Mountain Dew, She likes to call "Go Go Juice"
It'll put a hurtin' on you
And who wouldn't want to see a six year old
With that kind of Hellacious Buzz
What goes through my mind when I look at that is
Ahhh, Redneck Motherly Love
So you had better redneckonize her!
If you know what's good for you
Cause a dolla makes her holla!
I'm so glad they've brought back the **** Tube...
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
I stood in front of the big glass doors
Of some sub urban shopping mall
Conversations buzzing by
Like flies in a bathroom stall
*What a ******* **** Break up with him!*
Slam
Honey I love you
Slam
Overdressed teenagers, women with fur coats
Slam
Broke fathers
Slam
Rich housewives
Slam
Lovers
Drunkards
Reprobates
Slam
So bland yet so intricate
So doltish, yet so innocent
And oh so bizarre
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 2:22 AM UTC
I wrote this after reading a poem about fake people off Facebook.
All is not fair in love when you got to research dudes secret desires and **** like that.
The real dudes want you to be real and not be head game queen to get him.
I'm a real man who spent time seeking women in all the wrong places.
Tried real life met my share of God faring GCB ****** droppers giving it up.
Met ones at bars who drink to much, will do you but blame it all on *****
I've met plenty of fake women seeking to get at what I have using *** methods.
Met many raised thinking marrying a rich man is better than a poor one.
If all the women claiming they want a decent guy were real they would find one.
Met some at malls wearing rings but bored with husbands and Facebook is a hunting
ground for lonely women and housewives like the ones off Craigslist placing ads.
Did some knowing they married ones weren't keepers they forgot they were married
not me. Who thinks about a wedding ring when married women come on to you and
you find **** what you see in profile pics and think you can't have it then BAM.
Husbands aren't the only ones placing ads and setting up hookups off net.
If you think I'm a scumbag what about the lonely married women who flirt, tease and
****** in chat and phone tempting you until you feel you gotta take it to real.
What about the young ones using bodies and *** to get a nice life and a ring on it.
Most of the young ones don't look at the man as desirable but are good at fake ***
Met a woman who got dumped by plenty of men and faked a pregnancy to get a
married man. After she got him to leave his wife, kids and home she had to fake
a miscarriage to keep from being dumped by the millionth man.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 4:30 AM UTC
the oldest profession
doth bring much needed funds
housewives and mothers walking the streets
to supplement the household income
Mrs Jones is plying her female wares
in a motel suite somewhere
those extra dollars
shall pay the education fees
for her daughter Claire
as day to day living
isn't cheap
mothers and wives working the pavement
at any given time
the money they receive is a bonus
a nice little earner
a few bucks can be most helpful
as the family budget oft sinks in a well
these women don't haggle
with their clients too much
they give them what they want
and in return get what they need
a dime is a dime
it can be so useful
when the fortnightly paycheck
is so skint
the ladies of the night
aren't always in the game for the purposes of romping
they're lying on their backs
to fill the hole
in the domestic
piggy bank
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
I saw you sitting on our front porch
It was a dull, silent day
The kind you find in Colorado
at spring time, early may
And the kids are at school
And the housewives are too busy cleaning the house
cooking their meals
Washing the lipstick stains off their husbands shirts
And you looked cute like little kids do
with a chubby face and baby hands
I sat next to you
and asked you what you were doing
You said "I'm waiting for the rain."
why?
"Because I like the smell of it."
You reaffirmed my sense in humanity then.
Someone who was only 5 years old
You made me want to go home and destroy every razor I had stashed away
Rip out every sad sob story of a poem I had written
Open up every curtain in that death stained house
That smelled like body odor
and human warmth
But it lacked
life
You made me want to scream and cry
and say "yes yes yes you're smart little guy!"
But I stared in amazement as thunder was heard
And now when I hear it, im reminded of your words
As I held your little hands in mine, the neighbour boy
and we danced in the rain as you squealed with delight
five years old with beautiful brown eyes
I could only hope one day Id have a brother like you
That was before my mom had the baby
And you were just a little boy
so every time it rains
I think of that dance
and how it smelled
and how it tasted when I found out that your stepfather had beaten your brains out
3 years later
after we'd moved.
That sweet-bitter taste.
of life laughing in your face
Jan 14, 2012
Jan 14, 2012 at 6:33 PM UTC
Once upon a thyme
In an herbed house
Their lived a witch
Whose ripe rampion
Was so overpowering
That the neighbors
Left bottles of febreeze
On her doorstep.
The witch didn’t care
- But
In the flat-ironed town
Of Lunch time lipo
Where you were defined
By your eating disorder
She looked like
An Omish escapee
*With hips that wriggled
And ******* that jiggled*
So her cell phone number
Wasn’t in anyone’s top five
-Except
For one confused neighbor
Who never made it to college
And got to experiment
Like a true Gemini.
Now imagine the witch’s surprise
When this neighbor confides
That she would love to eat
Her ripe rampion.
- Naturally
The witch agreed.
It was nice to have something
That somebody else wanted
Though it was exhausting
For the neighbor
Who munched day and night.
And if one surprise
Wasn’t enough
The witch discovered that her
Neighbor was pregnant.
Now the witch had many powers
But that wasn’t one of them.
It appeared that her neighbor
Found her husbands
Carrot patch to
Quite esculent also.
And the witch
Being a picky Virgo
With a jealous Scorpion moon
Thought that her neighbor
Should not
Have spun around the vegetable
Color wheel quite so fast
And so in a fit of temper
She stole her baby
And locked her away
In an ivory tower.
Initially everything worked out
Until the oil crisis
And then the witch couldn’t
Visit Rapunzel quite as often
As she would have liked
Not with gasoline
Being so expensive
And so Rapunzel became bored
And started chatting to
Prince charming
On her face-book wall.
The witch took all the hopeful Trojans
That the prince had left
On previous visits
And tied them together
To form a rubbery step ladder
And when she heard him shout
"Rapunzel, Rapunzel…let down your hair!"
She threw this at him…angling it
With just a little thread of hate.
Prince charming grew all shivery
And put on his worst
Austin powers "Oh behave" accent
*Thinking of the delights
That awaited him*
However, his shivery-ness
Soon became a full body tremor
When the witch met him
On the top rung
And he knew quick enough
This wasn’t a
Ménage à trois.
The prince spent many months
In traction
Recuperating from his fall.
Rapunzel was sent off
To boarding school.
And as for the witch…
She dropped twenty pounds
And got her own reality show
Housewives of Salem county.
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 11:21 PM UTC
*** sells
and so does sadism
sold to bored housewives
and professional women
breaking through
glass ceilings.
almost mid-way through
the sixth decade of existence on terra firma
there is a lot that gnaws away like a locust
at the soft underside of consciousness.
***
everywhere.
and the trap of biology.
women illustrated like circus sideshow attractions
ride naked on horses through the grimy marketplace
of stolen and bankrupt ideas.
*** minus monosodium glutamate.
you’ll like it better if you’re
tressed with plaits of golden silk
in a turquoise dungeon.
this morning
tortured by dreams. a ********** of the mind
teasing sunlight on a blasted dais. she’s a *****
worshipped by the masses.
madison avenue
hollywood
the sound of debit cards
in the wind.
the high art
of the american landscape
is kim kardashian
naked
her ***
blotting out
the sun.
while
poets drown
silently
down in
the shadow
of that wondrous
eclipse.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
Rummaging noises that muscle into stark gravity
maiming
black & white finishes
into the hands of young artists
and everyday geezers
--drinking wine made for mad housewives.
We are seduced and strangled by this.
Spirits that knock seven times
on Hiroshima's soul that levitates through
planet Earth's oceans
--how can we not pull a ****
from our sweaty palms?
Gods, and doors, and chalk spittle
that gores the gorilla's back in the abyss
threatening hopeful snow--the lifting of applauding
violins. We are seduced and strangled by this.
Cultural amoeba--
the dimensional of minds
--made up of blank smoke
and film negatives.
And oh!
How the gasoline pours rainbows
on the pavement, fertilizing the crosswalks
where we danced...
seduced and strangled by this.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC