"levis" poems
She swam all over me
and I was fishing in her dreams
and I was fishing in her jeans
for change and sunken treasures
with her pale skin and scales
she sang of the primordial sea
and swelled of the deep
deep inside the levis thin
this leviathan
groaned with pants and moans
and I was finishing in her dreams
and I was finishing in her jeans
So I swam away from her
into the belly of the beast
and she sank
beneath the waves
and left me
in my wake
Aug 3, 2016
Aug 3, 2016 at 10:26 AM UTC
Wearing pink Ruckus shirt and Levis **** shorts
She looks so daring that makes his devilish smile
Nobody in this place could make him dance and sing
Fishing women in the sea makes him crazy for a while
There are moments that his thoughts are scrambled in
While the moon is hiding in the night, he wishes for a sign
Whoever comes to him this time will magically shift his heart
On a solitary moment of dreaming like this, that girl in pink is fine!
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 12:32 AM UTC
I strip
To rip
Myself from
Myself
Major labels
Silly slogans
Dry wash only
Made to define me
Walking billboard
Corporate *****
I take off the hat
For the team I support
Put down all the digital devices
Cause they replaced my old vices
Remove the faded Levis
The Nikes, and super hero shirt
Disposed of the whole disguise
Got rid of the old lies
To find what really lyes
Behind my hazel eyes
Naked to find
Who am I beyond my
Consumer style consumption
Feb 21, 2015
Feb 21, 2015 at 12:34 PM UTC
Campus twilight chases the pinkest of airplanes
Across sunset pinched sky
February is making up its mind to March
I am making up my mind to loneliness
I will put the college age feminist cuff in my Levis
And swear you off
Swear you into oblivion
Kissing off this dusky breeze
Jump into liquid night
The 10 minute homeward stride
To lighted windows
Uphill to age 20
We could all shed tears
For a 17th year beating a hasty retreat
But we don’t
We’ll pillage the future
Before it even cracks a smile
Such are the years of inbetween
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 7:46 PM UTC
She pushed her groceries
Past the beans and black eyed peas
She picked a few cucombers up to weigh
I looked close at her hand
There was not a wedding band
When she winked I nearly fainted dead away
She walked toward the health food section
And I followed her perfection
She was one fine specimen of womanhood
We checked our lists together
As we talked about the weather
I had the feeling things were going good
We were in the market for love
Sometimes groceries just aint enough
She's what I waited for so long
Man can't live by bread alone
We were in the market for love
Her levis had me cross-eyed
She almost had me tongue-tied
I tried to be as cool as I could be
I said, "Could we share some wine
At your place or mine"?
She said, "Honey, it's on aisle number three"
We were in the market for love
Sometimes groceries just ain't enough
She's what I waited for so long
A man can't live by bread alone
We were in the market for love
Bridge
And now we shop together at the store
'Won't be long till we're shopping for one more...
We were in the market for love
Sometimes groceries jus ain't enough
She's what I waited for so long
A man can't live by bread alone
We were in the market for love
A song by Louis Brown and Mitch Ballard
May 15, 2012
May 15, 2012 at 9:55 AM UTC
Woman at diner who knew Fugazi,
I wear all these pins
on my denim jacket
waiting for someone like you
because a t-shirt isn’t
loud enough.
Woman who knew Fugazi,
waitress at diner,
had “seen them twenty times,”
without exaggeration—
with cracking olive skin
and graying curly black
hair to her shoulders,
the light refracting off my pin
my friend bought at a record store
in Philly reflecting her the image
of a slender, voluptuous youth
donned in fake leather
worn Levis and beat Vans
shaking her mop of jet-black curly hair
in a throng of like-minded dressed
individuals in a dingy club
angsty Washingtonians
fleeing the Reagan Youth
mad at Capitalism
mad at Middle Class,
mad at Excess, Abuse, Malaise—
driven by the furious punk rhythms
of sweat-drenched Fugazi.
Woman who knew Fugazi,
friends with Ian MacKaye,
hadn’t seen him in years—
waitress at restaurant
where the scrambled eggs are dry
and the coffee is stale.
Waitress at diner,
Mother now,
wife, adult,
[[punk]]
at heart.
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 3:51 PM UTC
She lay in his bed
Scenes of tunnels & trains
& thoughts of trite moosh run through her head
when young she saw him different
with a quiff
& a whiff of CK on levis
& a watch with LED lights
& a t-shirt blue, skin tight
but with fashion aside
her passion subsides
when he enters not so gently,
did not test the waters
did not guess it was low tide
During the evening they danced
They got down to steady trance
But now it seems he’s in free time
A strange rhythm, so contrived
He doesn’t look like he knows it
Doesn’t seem like type
To quote ornette coleman
In the dark of the night
He has the feel of squashed fruit
And the thwack of a wet sock
Flooped out like misplaced steps
Of a horse learning to walk
The night entertainment then,
Condemned to an eye on a clock
Whilst sharing sweaty absorbence
& not at all evenly proportioned
the most obtuse solos
are always too long
and if made into a duet
it’s just awkward & wrong
one face polite
as one face holds strong
held strong in the notion
it is the king of this realm, his own
like a deluded ****** rock star
with an out of tune guitar
& a confused young groupie
rebelling against her ma & pa
in the end he doesn’t sell it
rather he gives it away
& she is obliged to take it
to carry on the shared charade
a feeble dance of pretence
not to shatter the held façade
of a bullied masculinity
of a young boy fully charged
of a girl swooned by a conman
albeit not well disguised
she convinced herself a prince of sorts
fit to break past her royal guard
she leaves bored & unfulfilled
while he sleeps sound & proud
her dreaming of a prince she’ll soon meet
with a better sense of time
Jan 25, 2013
Jan 25, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
Tribal paint flickers
as illumination passes by
packed platforms of private souls
spilling into peripheral vision
Saturday nights
create fresh perspective
on unconscious thoughts
An unpulled can
of tired, bow-tied Spaniards
and white-clad partygoers
Tinney earphones
thrusting Brooklyn's finest
99 Problems aren't on my mind
but in my (un)willing ears
And I saw you on the street
42nd I'd say
I was filling my lungs
with the poison,
beautiful,
you showed me
You walked past me
just another stranger
you in 10 years time
They say everyone has a doppelganger in NYC
I haven't seen mine
but she's seen me
and Brooke saw her too,
rolled up Levis and a frown
you looked as beautiful as you always did
but clean of everything
you'd ever touched
or is yet to touch you
because nicky clouds
my thoughts lift me higher
I wanted to tell you that
I pray now
But I let you walk by
and disappear
leaving me with myself
coffee spilt from matches
got twisted and wouldn't light
I'm one handed,
crowded city but you're not here.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
Children dressed in oversized jersey's; lined with white stripes,
Are brawling in the street playing out their favorite hockey fights.
And the sidewalk was tucked in under a soft white blanket,
Memories of summer and autumn are falling out of a hole in my pocket.
The smell of fresh bagels filled the britle winter atmosphere,
And The sun blew me a kiss goodbye, for the early darkness was near.
I was choking on my burgandy nitted noose,
Turning the page to the comics, while i pulled my scarf loose,
I stopped to watch A single leaf hold on to that bold maple tree,
Taken by the wind, and into the suburban montreal esprit,
So i pried out a silver flask from my old levis jacket,
While the memories of summer and autumn fell out of a hole in my pocket.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 5:30 PM UTC
via damaged left into ordaining right -
mandarin pictographs -
or akin to English
acronyms with missing prepositions,
conjunctions and other shrapnel bits...
they write u.s.a. but say
united states.. of.. america...
writing acronyms in english
is like writing mandarin,
all the little words are missing...
and the little words should be missing too,
but what false celebrity gives
is what false citizenship gets...
you write english in acronym you're basically writing
chinese... there's a billion of them...
i don't know why you'e prone to ***** and
puff and snigger (imitation of a donkey's
sneeze, no bother)... i know this isn't
1 billion Mongolians... but maybe this isn't
a time to choke the joke with some
Levis jeans Americana and a dusted-over-twice
cow-dung-covered baby blue eyes farmer?
why are farmers the joke in Europe
and heroes in America? ah... the lasso.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 10:05 PM UTC
wisps of hair float across your face
as you uproot a strand of prairie grass
and clasp your hands 'round it, bring it to your lips, and blow
In a wild meadow
I stand with you
in cutoff levis patches on the knees
cottonmouth and butterflies in my yellowbelly
Long after the cotton gin.
Still remains,
a thicket 'round your soul
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 8:24 PM UTC
sweet yesterday, where did you go?
its been long since i've seen you even more since we spoke
and i've been meaning to tell you the camels back broke
and i've lost sight of things since i last time i wrote
and i know that you hate these notes i'm just trying to cope
somehow it helps to know i let you know
that i'm doing alright without you, once again
i no longer live in sin on the outside looking in
i'm the kid on the frontlines wearing skin too thin
and the levis are ripped, i got ****** scabs to match
i've been moving so fast that my mom can't patch
this hole in my heart i tried to fill with a spark
but i lost my grip and it left its mark
i don't know how many times ive had to curse this *****
somebody tell me, why's it always gotta be like this?
i remember when it was fine and we were just running
but now she's starting to take friends away from me
i've been thinking of the best way to say that we miss you
i wanna put my fist through glass cause it hurts too bad
to think about all of the things that you should've had
so i'll sit back, got some pictures out of storage
ill crack and orange for you, its sad but it's true
that you passed on throught without saying goodbye
but its alright we just want to apologize
sorry you had to go through it all alone
a guy like you deserves to be at home
with friends by your side and smiles in your eyes
not cold in the grass by yourself late at night
you never know when that drink will come and take your loved ones life
but just keep telling yourself you'll be alright
suicide by installments a day at a time
tip your glasses to the sky and hope tomorrow brings new light to life
while we scream
look Johnny B, you're finally free
go run your heart out, boy
know that we will be chasing
orange soda tasting, hawiian shirt raising, facing our fears
for you
Jul 11, 2011
Jul 11, 2011 at 7:09 PM UTC
i just want to stay up to midnight and watch the footie...
see, already, it's there, he wannabe blind man
turning phonetics upside down
using optical symbols to sing with his eyes closed
and acting out a sloth piece of a stage's curtain call for encore,
footie can be american slang for football: or ensure a bag of
flour explodes while i get scalped;
otherwise footie means football:
you know it's round enough to be kicked
rather than thrown for a touchdown...
never got the hang of it... n.f.l. means
as much to me as does excess of hair
on a cranium crop of expected hair with no beard,
and vice versa, loss of hair and a donned
beard for the plucked sucker of the 2nd ball drop...
baldy over here met elvis and in levis took
to a cattle stampede with aria: la la la lee lo lo he he
(mike jackson slam dunks a quack for the moon pond,
like it was n.b.a. anyway: walking on ice
the musical... now the encore... signature the
sound of applause);
so this married man is rebelling...watches football
till midnight, rebel...
watches the footie...
a. foot, i.e.
b. foot, e
c. foot eeh
d. footy
e. foo' tea
f. foo' tee
now you guess the accent...
cumbrian? glaswegian?
north london or brick lane? which?
a, b, c d or e or f?^
see what happens being judgemental and sober?
you get drunks doing picassos! and that's not good
not good one bit for the worth of investment in plagiarisms.
the stressor marks / diacritical marks missing in english
obviously gave us scot spelling and a welsh 1 + 1 of
a middle finger longbow stylistic for the v long
before churchill... i wanted gaelic i got trainspotting spelling...
about as relevant as catcher in the rye relevant by now...
so... don't teach accent rubrics... and you'll get a heartfelt
superiority in the former colonies, while the pigeons coo:
or simply curl the famished tongues
that were silenced for man to speak in spasms
of an electrician checking the sockets for an electric depth
of the pigeons' coo into an aqualine echo of a sneeze,
if not snorkel or a gesundheit.
^*i hate how syllable splitting into compounds
show diacritical marks all too relevant, missing.*
Jan 10, 2016
Jan 10, 2016 at 6:06 PM UTC
Le navire est venu à cheval, à une heure inexacte
Notre frère-matelot, du Panthéon des Poètes, était à son bord
Jean Pierre Basilic Dantor Frankétienne D’argent
Qui écrivait, à la hâte, le dernier acte
Se trouvait par hasard, miraculeusement sur le port
Il est monté, il est parti sans parler, sans argent
Sans ses chefs d’œuvre, sans une petite maison
C’est la vie, on part à toute saison.
Kalfou te kindeng miwo, miba ye.
Franckétienne n’est pas disparu
Il est quelque part, à Ravine-Sèche, dans les rues
Son inspiration est dans ‘l’émission le Point’
Nous n’avons pas d’autres choix que de prendre soin
De sa mémoire, de son invention et de son imagination
Franckétienne était un génie Haïtien, poète, dramaturge, spiraliste
Ministre de la culture, faiseur de mots, chanteur, peintre et artiste
Son nom était une longue phrase
Et ses paroles faisaient rire jusqu'à l’extase.
Kalfou te kindeng miwo, miba ye.
De son vivant, il n’avait pas obtenu sa petite maison
C’était un génie légendaire qui a défié l’imagination
La dictature, l’ordinaire, l’inordinaire et l’abstraction
En devenant un mapou, un baobab. Dirait Wendell
Quel potomitan! Quelle cathédrale! Quelle citadelle!
Pour paraphraser le fils du directeur de Mac Donald
« S’il arrive que tu tombes, apprends vite à chevaucher
Ta chute, que ta chute devienne un cheval, ton cheval
Pour continuer le voyage », la randonnée.
Kalfou te kindeng miwo, miba ye.
« Chaque minute compte après cinquante ans »
Disait Franckétienne, puisqu’on peut partir
A n’importe quelle heure, à n’importe quel instant
‘Galaxie plomb gaillé’, pas trop **** du nadir
Une trace invisible sur la tète à la Valentino ou à la Tino Rossi
Frankétienne s’en est allé, l’artiste est parti
Il demeure plus que jamais un Être nouveau
Le géant, l’écrivain, le comédien, le créateur des mots
Est habillé en bretelle comme un gros blanc nègre
Pas comme un monstre de Dr. Frankenstein. Comme une pègre
Le navire est venu à cheval, c’est la mort
Qui nous menace comme si nous avions tort
Nous pleurons maintenant comme la mère
Pour cet octogénaire avancé, pour ce prince de lumière.
Kalfou te kindeng miwo, miba ye.
P.S. Un Hommage à Franckétienne et famille, à Wendell Théodore
Et compagnie, à Radio Métropole et à tous les Haïtiens conséquents.
J’offre mes sincères condoléances à tous. Sit ei terra levis!
Copyright © Février 2025, Hébert Logerie, Tous droits réservés
Hébert Logerie est l'auteur de plusieurs recueils de poésie.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 7:38 AM UTC
it was 4 am the baby was kicking
they both wanted mint chocolate chip
which was the only thing
not in the hotels mini fridge
I being the loving father to be
left in my levis from yesterday
the best decision I ever made
was kissing her goodbye
So now here I am in the closet
of the man who ruined our vacation
Alameda trailer home
clutching a vial of heroine
and a pair of pliers
Symbolistic white walls
surround my fate
if i dont pull these teeth
in secret
the villain shakes the whole
**** death trap
opening his lock for the last time
the worst decision he ever made
was locking the door
a few minutes later his hand
scratched at the ****
until the opiates
settled the score
his body now the rag doll,
I wanted to impregnate him
with the love my son could have been
and tear it out of him with the same tools
dangle it from the same floor lamp
that is in an evidence room locker
with my D.N.A. all over it
the worst decision the cops ever made
showing me the list of suspects.
the worst decision I ever made
was narrowing them down, one by one.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
We came bearing corporate gifts,
Three Musketeers & Juicy Fruit,
Gummi Bears &
a few Marlboros.
Some of them wore souvenirs T's,
the Bulls & the Yankees,
Disney World
& the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles,
totally clueless.
Out in the markets,
sat a million capitalists
selling pirated Hollywood
& fake Levis
to make a nickel.
And when we left,
we gave them
even more destruction
by leveling their villages
with another corporate gift,
our Lima M1 Abrams.
Jun 23, 2014
Jun 23, 2014 at 11:01 PM UTC
Every 28 days comes
the red tide we were
gifted as girls our curse.
Our red badge of courage.
Sherry marked his white Levis.
He put a red pen in his pocket.
Jul 2, 2021
Jul 2, 2021 at 10:12 PM UTC
there's temptation all around
but i've grown too wise to succumb to it
boyish grins
come hither looks
& empty compliments
don't do a thing for me...now
there was a time when all it took
was a glance & a crafty smile
tossled hair &
swell fitting levis
toss in a wink & a drink
and i'd swoon
but now
now, i'm too smart for that nonsense...
...funny thing is
i'm not 100% sure that's a good thing.
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 4:34 PM UTC
Man today just ain't my day
The skies are grey as my nikes is
I feel so much pressure
But nothing like Mike did
I just don't know what to do
To be free like birds of the sea
Tuna or a blue bird
I just want to be free
Free from all reality
Pressure like when the Levis broke
Head North for the winter time
For its always cold here to me
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC
Standing like a steeple in his shower,
just as revered and rickety,
mouth open,
pooling warm tap further than you'd think.
I spit cities, shining terror.
I swallow rust, I gulp fluoride.
I'm not nocturnal,
I’ve never liked wine.
(We’re still right here
still in a foggy half-love and still shouting
over where it went.)
Your performance on the bench,
baiting me but not reeling me in.
There were no nights swept dancing like water lilies over the quiet morning creek,
spinning slimy pirouettes on algae glazed boulders
animated over arguments
or kissing in truck beds until Mexican blankets
stopped feeling scratchy.
I'm just a distraction
a pretty one
to touch and slip toward
but nothing worth bragging about.
Nothing worth exaggerating or keeping
folded like a wallet in your back pocket
Levis for for beer nights in dive bars to come.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:31 AM UTC
The ship came like a flying horse, at an inexact time
Our brother-sailor, from the Pantheon of Poets, was on board
Jean Pierre Basilic Dantor Frankétienne D’argent
Who wrote, in haste, the last act
Happened to be miraculously on the port
He got on and left without speaking, without money
Without his masterpieces, without a little house
That’s life, we leave at any season.
Kalfou te kindeng miwo, miba ye.
Franckétienne is not gone
He is somewhere, in Ravine-Sèche, Haiti, in the streets
His inspiration is in the show of ‘the Point’
We have no choice but to take care
Of his memory, his invention and his imagination
Franckétienne was a Haitian genius, poet, playwright, and spiralist
Minister of culture, wordsmith, singer, painter and artist
His name was a long, long sentence
And his words made people laugh until ecstasy.
Kalfou te kindeng miwo, miba ye.
While alive, he had not obtained his little house
He was a legendary genius who defied the imagination
The dictators, the ordinary, the unusual and the abstract
By becoming a mapou, a baobab. Wendell would say
What a potomitan! What a cathedral! What a citadel!
To paraphrase the son of the director of McDonald's
"If you happen to fall, learn to ride quickly
Your fall, let your fall become a horse, your horse
To continue the journey", the excursion.
Kalfou te kindeng miwo, miba ye.
"Every minute counts after fifty"
Once said Frankétienne, since you can leave
At any time, at any moment
'Galaxy plomb gaillé', not too far from the nadir
An invisible trail on the head like Valentino or Tino Rossi
Frankétienne is no more, the artist is gone
He remains more than ever a new Being
The giant, the writer, the actor, the creator of words
He is dressed in suspenders like a big white *****
Not like a monster from Dr. Frankenstein. Like a mobster
A thief, the ship came like a flying horse; it is death
That threatens us as if we are wrong
We weep, cry now like a mother in mourning
For this advanced octogenarian, for this prince of light.
Kalfou te kindeng miwo, miba ye.
P.S. A Tribute to Franckétienne and family, to Wendell Théodore
And company, to Radio Métropole and to all good Haitians.
My sincere condolences to all! Sit ei terra levis!
This is a translation of
‘Le Navire Est Venu À Cheval, Ou Hommage Au Fameux Poète Frankétienne’
Copyright © February 2025, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of several collections of poems.
Feb 24, 2025
Feb 24, 2025 at 2:06 PM UTC
Today, she saw old pictures
some old emotions slowly creaping beneath her eyes
She thought she could use some liquor
'coz it still hurts her seeing his old levis
She said,"Old souls can never forget"
and she meant everything she wrote
It's sad how every pieces could mean regret
but she stands firm and realize,
self love could never be bought.
Jun 28, 2016
Jun 28, 2016 at 9:48 PM UTC
si vidissent iam levis flammae desiderio et viderunt affluentiam rebus essem corruptas meos impetus et sciebat quid patientia perficere posset mihi licuit in minori mundo crudeli unquam fuit laetior anima mea
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC