"lapels" poems
Red Poppies grow
Upon lapels
Telling of
War's untold hell
Of green hills
Pristine and groomed
Marching crosses
On the tombs
Marching crosses
Star of David
Where Stars and Stripes
Fluttered and wav'ed
Of buddies lost
Buried in cairns
Of brothers. Sisters.
Thus disarmed.
Of need for morphine
To end the pain
Of bandages
To staunch red stains
To honor souls
Under white snow
Upon lapels
Red Poppies grow.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/29/2016
May 28, 2016
May 28, 2016 at 8:23 PM UTC
elephants stomp with stone-laden feet
back and forth, back and forth,
creating cracks in my already-battered skull,
weakening the very foundations of my sanity.
their trumpeting echoes through cold corridors
flooding my thought capacity to the brim.
a tightrope walker stretches me, thin -
i feel the shifting pressure of her nimble feet
treading the territories of my weathered frame,
back and forth, back and forth,
my skin reddens beneath the incessant crossing
as the sinew within me starts to atrophy.
in my chest cavity there is a ring of fire,
manipulating my lungs and feeble heart to mere ash.
two golden eyes seen beyond the flames,
ready to leap through them - without the
inconvenience of fear weighing down his agile paws,
both capable and likely to tear my veins to shreds.
a grisly strongman has my bones in his grip.
he smiles malevolently, gloating his strength over me,
squeezing the life from my cartilage - awaiting the snap.
i am cognizant of the sound, but i won't flinch.
next, the imminent collapse of my vertebrae -
i feel them crumble to dust. he laughs.
but it is in the pit of my stomach the ringleader sits -
commanding me into subsidence with every crack of his whip.
i want to meet his eyes but he only averts my gaze.
his twisted circus nearly through, the audience begins to dissipate.
i stare through the blurred smoke, desperate for his visage -
when i see on one of his faded lapels, the embroidery spells out your name.
-m.f.
Oct 1, 2013
Oct 1, 2013 at 12:03 AM UTC
invisible isotopes
gently rain down
onto the chins
of infants
we whisk
them
away with
soft kisses
tiny
irradiated
dust flakes
float onto
boutonniereless
lapels
we brush them
off with fresh
carnations
Oak leaves
blown from
denuding limbs
by soft puffs of
radioactive
plumes
are shaken
from our
door mats
green grass
sprinkled with
Strontium 90
is mowed
and mixed
into our
compost piles
the pristine
waters
of March
are laced with
uranium
tainted
iodine
it coolly
slakes
our
piqued
thirst
the rouge rose
gilded with
a golden plush
of soft plutonium
is plucked
to adorn late
evening
dinner tables
and exchanged
by sweethearts
as amorous
gestures
of resignation
between
condemned
lovers
Oakland
3/28/11
jbm
Nov 5, 2011
Nov 5, 2011 at 9:27 PM UTC
HE lived on the wings of storm.
The ashes are in Chihuahua.
Out of Ludlow and coal towns in Colorado
Sprang a vengeance of Slav miners, Italians, Scots, Cornishmen, Yanks.
Killings ran under the spoken commands of this boy
With eighty men and rifles on a hogback mountain.
They killed swearing to remember
The shot and charred wives and children
In the burnt camp of Ludlow,
And Louis Tikas, the laughing Greek,
Plugged with a bullet, clubbed with a gun ****
As a home war
It held the nation a week
And one or two million men stood together
And swore by the retribution of steel.
It was all accidental.
He lived flecking lint off coat lapels
Of men he talked with.
He kissed the miners' babies
And wrote a Denver paper
Of picket silhouettes on a mountain line.
He had no mother but Mother Jones
Crying from a jail window of Trinidad:
"All I want is room enough to stand
And shake my fist at the enemies of the human race."
Named by a grand jury as a murderer
He went to Chihuahua, forgot his old Scotch name,
Smoked cheroots with Pancho Villa
And wrote letters of Villa as a rock of the people.
How can I tell how Don Magregor went?
Three riders emptied lead into him.
He lay on the main street of an inland town.
A boy sat near all day throwing stones
To keep pigs away.
The Villa men buried him in a pit
With twenty Carranzistas.
There is drama in that point...
...the boy and the pigs.
Griffith would make a movie of it to fetch sobs.
Victor Herbert would have the drums whirr
In a weave with a high fiddle-string's single clamor.
"And the muchacho sat there all day throwing stones
To keep the pigs away," wrote Gibbons to the Tribune.
Somewhere in Chihuahua or Colorado
Is a leather bag of poems and short stories.
2.8k
I want a nobody.
A faceless commuter swearing as the machine ignores his credit card. Or the guy two tables to the left who isn’t checking his watch because he isn’t waiting on someone. Any hoodie-wearing, adidas-laced, prospective english major rambling along the sidewalk.
I want a nobody.
‘Cause there’s never a somebody that won’t say “I love you” because it’s numbed by too many mouths that don’t form their lips the right way. The somebodies slide it off their careless tongues—
because little words are pennies in tip jars.
But Nobody, he’ll say
I love the way you put on a jacket
like some kind of whip-snap in the lapels and collar
tipping your chin up and
hooking your silver-ringed thumbs in the pockets
and I love how you flip through books
eager to break the spine but not fold the pages
holding your breath to hold the focus
propping open a paperback between long tapered fingers
and how the barista at the coffeeshop knows your face!
and blush rises like foam on your cheeks
because it’s so ******* incredible how
when you drum your fingers
you don’t drum you press
into a phantom piano
the treble clef of Linus and Lucy
or The Entertainer
or, if your eyes have already gotten deeper
—in a mossy well of thought—
it’ll be Augustana’s Boston
dancing C-E-C-E-G-E-C-E
in the jumping tendons of your right hand.
*
oh darling, I’m in love with
your clumsy movements when you fall into bed
wrapping a thick comforter over your bare shoulders
curling your legs as you settle on your side
hair fanned out on the bedsheet because
the pillow’s too close to the wall
but lovely, I don’t love you
because I’m not real at all
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 10:23 PM UTC
*r EVOL ution
uncoils slowly by the fire
pondering of profound-flickering in the reverse-sparks
within the pupils of shifting-light*
1.
love(r) dips deep within a hardy fire-maker from another sky
body recycled and soul carried on
mind unlike any other
it’s simply a matter of Time.. holding that rusty-key of long ago
entrusted to a cavorite-place behind silent-wells whose treadle-functions heaven forgot
2.
yet what counts highest sits on a ledge of paradox
as happiness falls short upon the threshold of fornever and never after
there are tumult-fears to overcome
and it needs time, once again
as hearty does beseech temporal-cogs to ensure one full revolution
thanks are not enough for things that words fail to express
no specific thing to pin-point
of the immense power the discharged-missile holds
who is ever the same person in the marching of months?
3.
exponential growth is combustion understated and surreal-excitement catches
to find traction in the whistling wind.. only a quarter-whisper away
it has instead.. been phenomenally unreal
.. can't explain it
.. won't deny it
4.
the full idea has near-outgrown its twin-seal flanks
that choices came shaking.. aghast and
dripping its magenta-fury in heavy-drips upon the sand
half-spilling lava-filled cups of ire
near the camp-side
grabbed it by the lapels
shaking – I love you so
now, why can’t you say it?
why won’t you declare it?
what holds your yellow-ass back so?
5.
there's a power-burst in the trajectory-whirligig here..
can’t be stopped, won’t be stopped
burnt offering rises up in a scathing-hiss
and exudes such a sweet-cleansing
of
semi-cinnamon and subtle ginger
*and.. love is but a word whose letters
lie
in the sand*
S T – 11 nov 2013
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 12:10 PM UTC
I wrote it on the back of my hand one day, I told you that I needed you – you wiped the smile off my face with your thumb, like I had smudged the words right out of my mouth. You taught me invaluable lessons I am sure never to forget, I was schooled by you, in ways I never really understood. I was a child, innocent by the very lapels on which you grew me up. Dragged me up, scuffed my shoes at the front and back. Untied my bra strap with your little finger and told me, listen here, love, I know exactly what I am doing. Made me believe in you, you did. Made me fall for every word. Made me fall for every whisper of love. Tenderly I was hooked by you.
You were the machine of my creation. Your greatest ever work of art. You sculpted my very inner being, tied me to my soul with burnt fingers and made me believe I was worth nothing more than **** Your purpose was excellent. Completely fooled I was, your succinct underhand ways grievously ruined my sight. No longer could I see reality, living in world prepared for, cooked up and served by you. I lost a lot of blood in those first few years, a lot of good stock died. My passion became my greatest detriment, for should I talk you would take the words from my mouth and mark them in the air; deconstructed with a red pen you would make me realise my mistakes.
Thank you for all you have done. To me. For me. With me. My ear is no longer connected to your mouth. I can breeeeeathe without having to miss a step. All my love that I was proud to possess had been given away, but I was proud to have failed you, I was proud to weep under you, I was proud, to have loved you and not gotten away with it. I take full responsibility for all my tremendous actions, the ones I gave for you, laid down in honour for you, to wipe your pretty little feet all over the back of my head. I turned around to face you and slapped that face right off your mouth
Loved I was by you. Needed I was by you, to be, you. I wrote **** you, on my ******* fingers and shoved them up your **** Now you talk my language, now you wait for me to see you. Now you know I am no longer your dishrag, your teatowel or your muse. Got it back I did, got back my heat, my fury, and glory. Action packed with honour and fire, loving and loved. I learnt from you lessons which I shall never forget, I was schooled by you. Wanted to thank you, for I am no longer afraid, my sweet ****** of you and your heart. This is a glorious world, one which you will never feel.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 4:58 PM UTC
Like a squiggle in your eye; blink,
and
I'm
gone
because I am all lipstick smudges left under carefully-pressed lapels, or Sharpied innuendos scrawled on bathroom walls in dingy bars.
A souvenir from one ephemeral moment, a fleeting tryst of dispassion (from my side at least); before I am scrubbed bare and raw.
DON'T YOU TOUCH ME, for I am so tender.
Thrown into the wash;
you can clean me, but the stain remains.
The scent of sugar, sweat and shame.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 5:32 AM UTC
Oh, the fine attire.
Women in low cut, grand gowns.
Men in their finest plumage.
Strutting Peacocks, aiming to draw attention.
I wore tails of silk, with fine brocade work as the trim, down the sleek lapels. I dressed entirely in black. From head to toe.
I looked splendid!
I stood out from the Peacocks, as a Raven would
stand out among Doves.
Cunning as a Raven too. She had not one suspicion.
I was at my best.
Charming, witty, a mystery. Women fall for that.
I slowly, cunningly stalk my prey. A vision in gold.
I danced with her. Her gold, a perfect foil to my black.
I charmed her sweetly. I maneuvered her easily.
I had previous, had the chance to find the spot,
where she would become mine. Such a pretty throat. One that I will drown within.
Once outside, hidden, strategically from all eyes, I began my "dance".
I gaze down into her eyes. Her precious heart begins to race. I can feel her blood. It calls to me with it's song.
A song of need.
Her breaths slowed and deepened. Her eyes remained locked with mine.
I let her see then, the glory of what I am. She wanted to scream. But, I had control now.
My incisors grew. Their points very sharp indeed. My muscles bulked. I ruined my fine new coat. Split the shoulder seams right out.
I toyed with her. I kiss her lips so gently. She trembled for me. I tried to hold back, wanting to prolong her fear.
Blood lust is, what is. I could smell her rich, thick blood. I wanted it all. I wanted to bathe in it. Feel it glide over my skin.
My fangs sank deep. Drawing up the precious blood. Elixir of life.
As I fed, I heard her heart slowing with each draw I took.
And just before death could claim her, I released her from her thrall, to scream. It was the last sound I heard as the men came running. I took my leave.
I am a monster.
I do it well and I love it so.
Soon the sun shall rise again.
I will sleep as the dead.
~Lord Kellington
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 6:33 PM UTC
Reckoning gaze, learning ropes, knotty pine encasement, knowing what the box looks like from inside is preeminent inimitable. I was so certain last year would be it. Likely even, I thought the same the year before and years before that, all whilst whittling away, planks of this coffin, scratching to get out. Sealed in a fate, this vampiric rising, doomed to eternity of night crawling. Yet, by no means has glamour of Hollywood realm flickered any sheen, this direction. Not all vampires can afford tuxedos. Grosgrain lapels, and red satin lined capes do do wonders for former stars of silver screen, but this succubus prefers his naked lot. Apparently, malignant rogues who lie amongst worms don't always have the wardrobe to go with it. New Year's resolution: a tuxedo, perhaps some tails, and somewhere to wear them.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 2:03 PM UTC
The second amendment might
As well be the sixty-ninth, for all
The life-long days it saves by
The transparent and glossy shields
Adorning blue-skied uniforms.
The strike zone is limited to the
Mobility-enhanced limbs, out of
Reach of the cardiac plateau, in
A line guarded by “I heart NYC”
Leftover campaign buttons.
Crowds question the timeless yet
Disintegrating rhetoric, and they
Sing along with misspelled threats
To sanguine attempts at love and
War, while grade schoolers watch.
What’s missing from this libretto
Is a slogan like “if they go low, we
Go high” and the money to borrow
It, or the right to use the copyright,
As long as it doesn’t get ******
“Now hear this,” bellows the man in
The crow’s nest, stepping in front
Of his stepson who brandishes a
BB gun proudly in his arms, “the
Curfew starts at midnight!”
Dona nobis pacem, a canon of
Faith, is hummed by the last ranks
Of veterans in camouflage, hoping
To initiate a temporary calm among
The bleak and ****** crew.
A clown-faced poet attempts to draw
A smile, as she calls for an absentee
Ballot, a circuitous frontage road
Away from destiny, some think,
And a short breath of recess.
“Take away their weapons,” hollers
A very pregnant woman, who goes
Into labor, blaming the guns for her
Untimely reward, and for a moment,
Just minutes, the midwifery begins.
All this while a small coterie of men
Gathers, silently taking in the show,
Unnoticed in their pretense, but
Sporting the heritage caps of the
NRA, stars and stripes in their lapels.
The disingenuous players in this sad
Drama are about to fold their tents,
To chicken out, to return to tacos
And beer, when stillness breaks,
So much so that crickets rule.
A small boy crosses the street, his
Smile contagious, his gait strong
As he approaches the men and
Says “I am you before now, be
Of peace and good cheer.
“My commandments have no
Amendments, no magic exceptions,
No golden calves, no wicked step-
Mothers, only a heart and soul,
I am the moral of your story.”
© Lewis Bosworth, 2016
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
Makes demons scatter
They cower in distant lands and await skyfall when only incandescence provide small detours but never refuge.
Sleep ?
Is a demon's bazar
They whirl and cavort gleefull that I have let them in on these rare occasions,much lost time to recapture.
Spectacular spectres. Portents.unbridled daymares with thundering flashing hooves,they gallop with boots reversed in silver stirrups.
A bagpipe dirge is on rotation as goblins and cadavers saunter in with dead carnations pinned where lapels should have been but by now only rotting and putrid skin.
Chain lightenin creases the night.
An eerie glowing light pulastes from atop twin peaks.Castle Frankenstein sits one hundred feet above the witches haunt. An antlike procession crawls to and fro between. Lost souls seeking refuge or small comfort.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
Stagecoach trundled, rutting, wheels
Soily grasp, grabbing at the earthy recipe
Cart....horsing around the outdoorsiness
Ferris wheel spun, gathering passengers
To overlook the show ground, smattered
Four legged races, saddled with encumbents
Bobbing in display formation. Far above
I caught sight of circular ribbons emblazoned
Lapels holding onto prize winners, suffering
The pin ***** jabbing at willing winners
Left foot first, hopscotch to the flap of tarpaulin
Billowing their precious overgrown greatness
Of perfect vegetalia, proud, excessive....of the
Dinner plate variety. Don't touch their polished
Surface, they deliberately await photographic
Validation; future growers, challenging champion
Chompers, terrorising super-veggie heros
I wonder what becomes of former ground growers
Do they take a back stage bow? Uprooted with
Those of a lesser kind, jostling for saucepan space
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
You've cut ff your feet
to spite your head
Is there nothing left
in between?
is your whole life
blackened
and squandered
rotted and
gnarled
by gangrene?
*Join me, come in.
Cavort with the dead
Join me, come in.
I can't be alone in my head.*
How can you sit
there
with blood on your face
and not feel
it dry to a crust?
How can you sit
there
with gore on your hands
knowing you shiver
from lust?
*Join me, come in.
Cavort with the dead.
Join me, come in.
I can't be alone in my head.
You, too, must feel torment
and torture.
You, too, must be plagued
without cure.*
Where are you going?
to hell and not back?
Did you buy your ticket
to ride?
or
will you walk
into
the bottomless pit
draped with your badges
flesh putrefied?
Heads on lapels like
an Easter corsage
dead lilies like
those on a grave,
a grave that you dug
then
stepped in to forage
to eat as a worm of the flesh.
Flesh young and tender
that flamed with desire
till your curse
extinguished
the fire.
*Join me, come in.
Come into my fire.
Join me, come in.
We'll wade through
the mire
with blood
in our mouths
and our eyes.
Taste of the pain,
the glorious pain.
Like a gift
I give it to you,
offered again and again,
a philanthropist
swollen with bounty,
who bestows what
he has
like a prize.*
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 6:11 PM UTC
i woke up in a place where white girls
don't wear socks and she tickled the small
of my back with her icicle toes under the sheets
now the bulge of a small animal
is confronting fear in the form of
one loving glance
i was not poetic enough
until i lifted you from behind and
set you on a cloud
you pushed me towards a megaphone
and i announced you to the world, saying
she's a wild dove
and the wind pushed back
the lapels of my jacket and
you kissed me on the collarbone
without fear and then we
doubled up in laughter
like two souls tossing in hell,
on a grill
Nov 28, 2013
Nov 28, 2013 at 12:53 AM UTC
Late one nice warm evening
Came a very loud knock upon my door
It was a complete stranger
Tired bewildered and lost
Now imprisoned in my dark magical woods
A gracious host of course
I bowed and extended my hand and stated
Please come in, dear friend take a seat and let’s discuss pressing matters
Such as the ghost to my left or the ghoul to the right dressed in tatters
As you can plainly see I am playing poker with the 3 eyed demons of the 4th night
Who infamous cheaters like the mummies rarely ever get a second invite
The vampires are sitting in the shadows where they think no one may see
Putting visine in their red eyes
White roses in black lapels and sharpening their pointed teeth
The werewolves yellow dripping fangs
Are climbing the curtains growling
Come the rising of the round moon
The goblins little monsters stroll in nosily
Angrily demanding recognition which is rightly their due
The witches spitting and cursing their hats
Hopped clumsily off their brooms
While the strongest warlocks were locked in battle
Throwing spells across the amber walled room
They have arrived for my banquet
As all have received the coveted invitations before
When some foolish stranger like you
Unaware knocks upon my door,
All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M Darby March 2, 2019.
All Material Stored in Author Base
Humorous Dark Poetry
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 11:33 PM UTC
The second amendment might
As well be the sixty-ninth, for all
The life-long days it saves by
The transparent and glossy shields
Adorning blue-skied uniforms.
The strike zone is limited to the
Mobility-enhanced limbs, out of
Reach of the cardiac plateau, in
A line guarded by “I heart NYC”
Leftover campaign buttons.
Crowds question the timeless yet
Disintegrating rhetoric, and they
Sing along with misspelled threats
To sanguine attempts at love and
War, while grade schoolers watch.
What’s missing from this libretto
Is a slogan like “if they go low, we
Go high” and the money to borrow
It, or the right to use the copyright,
As long as it doesn’t get ******
“Now hear this,” bellows the man in
The crow’s nest, stepping in front
Of his stepson who brandishes a
BB gun proudly in his arms, “the
Curfew starts at midnight!”
Dona nobis pacem, a canon of
Faith, is hummed by the last ranks
Of veterans in camouflage, hoping
To initiate a temporary calm among
The bleak and ****** crew.
A clown-faced poet attempts to draw
A smile, as she calls for an absentee
Ballot, a circuitous frontage road
Away from destiny, some think,
And a short breath of recess.
“Take away their weapons,” hollers
A very pregnant woman, who goes
Into labor, blaming the guns for her
Untimely reward, and for a moment,
Just minutes, the midwifery begins.
All this while a small coterie of men
Gathers, silently taking in the show,
Unnoticed in their pretense, but
Sporting the heritage caps of the
NRA, stars and stripes in their lapels.
The disingenuous players in this sad
Drama are about to fold their tents,
To chicken out, to return to tacos
And beer, when stillness breaks,
So much so that crickets rule.
A small boy crosses the street, his
Smile contagious, his gait strong
As he approaches the men and
Says “I am you before now, be
Of peace and good cheer.
“My commandments have no
Amendments, no magic exceptions,
No golden calves, no wicked step-
Mothers, only a heart and soul,
I am the moral of your story.”
© Lewis Bosworth, 2016
Sep 24, 2016
Sep 24, 2016 at 6:54 PM UTC
Alcohol encourages unusual behaviors,
As many may attest;
The fruit of drunkenness,
Embarrassment.
When I was ten, I saw a thing,
I've been reluctant to report,
But 45 years have come and gone,
And I find I have to tell someone
The tale of Christmas at my Gran's.
The neighbors came by invitation,
Arriving in style for a rural celebration,
In steady form, as alcoholics will maintain,
Little wobble in their walk,
Little slurring in their conversation.
What struck us into consternation,
Was Charlie's hairpiece, new and black,
Banded at one end, a horsetail piece,
Inverted and trimmed into a toupee,
How he'd figured out the thing,
Only alcohol could say.
The evening was funny,
With everyone not staring,
Taking sideways glances,
I'd say, "Please pass the peas,"
And look the other way,
Grinning slyly at my brother,
I ignored the warning glares
Coming from our mother.
The dining room grew warm,
With food and warming ovens,
My father trying to lead a conversation
About cows, and horses, Grandma's fritters,
Anything to keep the room from titters.
When old Charlie commenced sweating,
The crow-ish blackness of his hair
Revealed its shoe polish beginnings,
Trickling down behind his ears,
And then a rivulet released its flow
To wend its way beside his nose,
And dripping, dripping down, began
To drench his shirt, first the collar,
Vaulting lapels to his middle,
Until a river of black sweat
Drove to his belt, and trickled in.
T'was all that I could do
To look the other way,
To put Gram's napkins to my grin,
As Charlie's horse tail wig ran threads
Of shoe black down his nose and chin.
To this day, I cannot recall
Just how the evening ended,
I only know that afterwards,
For years, the family extended
The tale of Charlie's Christmas spree:
White shirt, horse toupee, and black ink,
Caused our parents to bring warnings
Of the dire consequence of drink.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 1:59 PM UTC
Sonia closed
the door
behind her
and leaned
against it
you go out
with me?
she asked
her Polish/English
grated on your ears
look I can’t
I have other
things to do
you said
running a hand
to smooth
Mr Dubbin’s bed
she looked around
the room
and said
what if someone
come in
and see you
here with me?
what if they think
you been having me?
but it wouldn’t
be true
you said
standing up
and moving away
from the bed
you know that
and I know it
but others
they do not
she said
her voice
crisp and cool
what if I undo
my uniform
and show my *******
and say you did it?
you blushed
at the thought
look
just leave me be
you said
she stood firm
against the door
her hands
on the lapels
of her uniform
you could say yes
she said
you could take me
out to cinema
and then
it would be good
huh?
you watched
as she undid
one button
at a time
you watched
her fingers undo
each button
with deliberate
slowness
if I say yes
you’ll stop this folly?
you asked
if you mean it
I will walk
from the door
and we can leave
and I do up
the buttons
before others see
she stared at you
her pale blue eyes
on you
her lips parted
just so
you could see
her small white teeth
where do you want to go?
you asked
cinema is good
she said
in the dark
we can kiss yes?
the buttons
were undone
to reveal
her compacted ****
ok ok
you said
the cinema
it is promise?
she said coolly
you make promise
and keep?
yes I make promise
and keep
you repeated
she began to do up
the buttons
her eyes
looking at you
and she smiled
and said
good boy
we have fun no?
you breathed out
the held in breath
sweat dampened
the back
of your shirt
and trouser legs
but if
you do not
show up
she said
brushing her uniform
I’ll say you make love
to me on this
Mr Dubbin’s bed
and I make bed
look all untidy
and they believe
me yes?
I’ll be there
trust me
you said
just let me go
I need to get
the other beds
made before lunch
she moved aside
and opened the door
her perfume
filtering your nose
off you go
she said
and be good
you went off
to make the beds
and show up
that night
as she knew
you would.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 3:34 PM UTC
One more dusty rotation
around this earth,
following deep grooves with stories
that suggest
this ain’t my first rodeo.
I can’t manage to keep hold of
a single thing they boast of worth,
but I have a finger on my awareness,
and that’s a start.
Meanwhile, the universe simmers
and bubbles, unsteady—
her shaky fuse lit and ready to go.
Restlessness and an urgency
felt with every passing second,
but she hasn't told me why.
And when I squint for a solution,
all I make out are
muted colors and shapes with no edges.
Abstract suggestion of a journey I know
I was born to grab by the lapels—
to collect lessons from grooves
and their dust
and gut feelings—
to allow them to transform
my armfuls of nowheres
to somewheres.
So, I tighten the grip of my thighs
on this carousel horse of mine,
careful not to let the circles
ride me.
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 10:45 AM UTC
Feast your eyes
on this!
100% Super One-Twenty,
Windowpane, chalk-white,
on a navy backdrop.
Fully Canvassed, mind you,
for the elegance of the suit
is dictated by its drape,
the structure the cloth streams
from shoulder to waist.
Here!
Do you see it? No?
The shoulder, it’s expression:
Spalla Camicia!
Simplification of the cumbersome Neapolitan,
shedding all the padding
of the English shoulder.
(Padding, I emphasize,
is for insecure prepubescent girls.)
Ah, but the star of the show,
the six by two,
the armour of choice of all dandies,
the de facto of the eternally stylish,
the double breasted jacket!
Shoulder wide peaked lapels
drawing horizontal lines
that elongate the torso,
nipping the waist.
(And as they say,
I like my jackets like
I like my women:
Double-breasted.)
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
he brings you petals in the morning
from mismatched flowers
blown away by the wind and drowned
by the dew
you meet him by the door and watch
the sun kiss his cheekbones
you grow a little bit each time you see the flowers
tucked against the lapels of his suit
you are his dandelion, and he your flower boy
you love him with the simple power of nature
ponder the wonders of harmony as he drags his leaves
against your jaw
his pressed petals
make you wonder how
could this get any better
you are a juxtaposition of dress shoes
bathed in marigold
comprised only of truth
what we believe is what we become
and so you never realise how
dress shoes crush dandelions
how ‘flower boys’ wilt into truth
craving the power of ripped petals and cracked stems
blown away into the wind
// hindsight
oh my flower boy
you have forgotten my marigold sunsets
amongst your dandelion dreams
how you wish i were as fragile as
those petals in the wind
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 12:46 AM UTC
FUNNY FELLA
You wear a coat of many colours.
An eccentric soul you bear.
Your colours,
they're all stripey.
You sport a baggy jumper,
all full up with holes .
It flops from your lapels.
You jangle while you're walking.
My man of jingle bells.
They match your make up and your hair,
absolutely perfectly.
Your trews all brown and baggy.
They're just a little grubby.
Attached to your fragile ankles,
with bending cycle clips.
You wear a floppy sun hat.
In the depths of winter.
You're really a rather strange one.
Sometimes seen wearing flip-flops,
in snow and ice,
I'm told.
We'll see you in a few weeks,
as on your sleigh you play.
For in a few days out to play,
nice and neat,
all dressed in red.
You'll visit us, 'twill soon be Christmas day.
(C) LIVVI
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
there are days when the words come
like fevered friends grasping at lapels
urgently telling the tale with gasping breath
other times they come like a sweet river in the sunshine
they flow like bright beauty
the words can ignite you or ******
like a simple phrase sweet to the ear
like her playing her guitar
melody brings the heart such joys
the concept brings such beauty
just a fragment of song
but in it i hear night caravans on high desert road
i hear autumn sunshine laying on soft grass
i see all the creation possible to me
so play a little longer
let me hear another summer day
let me find the words to my next heart's song
let me see the beauty in you
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 7:58 PM UTC
Please hold for an obligatory moment of silence, mute in its act, wordless in its perpetration.
Place artificial flowers on outer lapels, held in place with no concentration.
Feudal rivalries resurrected for resources and land…to be ripped from the native source’s hand.
Pitiful glances at battle worn soldiers, still praising ideology projecting them as a supported saviour.
Unregretful acts lead one to question their behaviour.
Service dogs doled out in bulk, preventing an army of PTS Banners from turning Hulk.
These discretionary acts of ill will mutilate the concept of freedom, and men who fought to uphold its worth.
These incendiary pacts on parliament hill, fumigating for roaches of aspersion, are bastardizing a new world’s birth.
Carriers’ return home, housing the long departed, not to be thanked, not to be appreciated, but to be ****** for unholy, sanctified acts.
Permitted parade zone, rousing the socially guarded, to be spanked, depreciated, and deemed unworthy to stand, before coyly rectified rats
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC