"loafers" poems
Your father was raised in Panama. I can imagine him vividly... The floral silk shirt with velvety red cravat, tan leather loafers, waxed-to-perfection moustache, and a big cigar. It was the late sixties and he was beautiful. I've never seen a photo but I can tell by the way you talked about him. His joi de vivre oozed into your stories and I recognized it: the distilled essence of his elegance was passed to you, and you shared it with me.
We met by our mutual attraction for showing off... I wanted to be treated like a delicate porcelain treasure - you wanted a plastic toy with the price tag of an heirloom. Twenty five years my senior and you still hadn't learned your lesson about girls like me... I may have broken your heart, but you should've known a tryst between the free-spirited edge of seventeen and a businessman with dreams of Panama would burn out in the end, just like your father's cigar.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 8:50 PM UTC
And I always find, yeah, I always find something wrong
You been putting up with my **** just way too long
I'm so gifted at finding what I don't like the most
So I think it's time for us to have a toast
Let's have a toast for the **********
Let's have a toast for the ********
Let's have a toast for the scumbags
Every one of them that I know
Let's have a toast for the jerk-offs
That'll never take work off
Baby, I got a plan
Run away fast as you can
[Verse 1: Kanye West]
She find pictures in my e-mail
I sent this ***** a picture of my ****
I don't know what it is with females
But I'm not too good with that ****
See, I could have me a good girl
And still be addicted to them hoodrats
And I just blame everything on you
At least you know that's what I'm good at
[Hook]
[Bridge]
Run away from me, baby, run away
Run away from me, baby, run away
It's about to get crazy, why can't she just, run away?
Baby, I got a plan, run away fast as you can
[Verse 2 - Pusha T]
24/7, 365, ***** stays on my mind
I-I-I-I did it, all right, all right, I admit it
Now pick your next move, you could leave or live wit' it
Ichabod Crane with that ************* top off
Split and go where? Back to wearing knockoffs, haha
Knock it off, Neiman's, shop it off
Let's talk over mai tais, waitress, top it off
Hoes like vultures, wanna fly in your Freddy loafers
You can't blame 'em, they ain't never seen Versace sofas
Every bag, every blouse, every bracelet
Comes with a price tag, baby, face it
You should leave if you can't accept the basics
Plenty hoes in the balla-nigga matrix
Invisibly set, the Rolex is faceless
I'm just young, rich, and tasteless
P!
[Verse 3: Kanye West]
Never was much of a romantic
I could never take the intimacy
And I know I did damage
Cause the look in your eyes is killing me
I guess you are at an advantage
Cause you can blame me for everything
And I don't know how I'mma manage
If one day you just up and leave
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
I live where a man rubbing
White shoe cream on his leather loafers has ulcers
From malnutrition and constant cassava.
Where a man’s sister loves his Fossil watch
And avocados, but gives
The whole fruit to her hate child.
The road is walked in the morning by
Rwandans, the jerry cans on their heads wetting their chests
With water from the spigot, half an hour away.
Nike shoes are unstitched, laces
Washed white daily and
The drinking water is gone by seven p.m.
I live where black people go thirsty keeping
Their sneakers white; throats dry each morning
While lacing their shoes.
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 1:03 PM UTC
Somewhere down in the depths of everyone, there is a spinning plate,
The Devil holds his stick parallel to yours and watches as you sweat,
You rip the sticky bottom of the bottle off of the glue and stick your bucket out to catch the fall,
The Devil plants his loafers and casually crosses one leg over the other,
Sometimes you even change the channel and pray that the entertainment value fills your cup,
The Devil licks the sides of your ice cream cone and draws faces in your food,
You drop your *** into the bean bag cloud and strum the buttons on your controller,
The Devil places the headset on his burning head and boils your water as you sit in the corner of the room, ignoring the kitchen,
Someone passes by with a similar stride and you turn a single glance into the Vietnam War,
The Devil sinks into the sofa and picks the fuzzies off of his jammies.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 3:38 PM UTC
just because you're dead
doesn't mean we aren't dating anymore
does it?
i am haunted
hearing you read a poem in my head,
dead
so we must have chemistry
or am i interminably obsessed
like a ghostly house
while your poems
have there way with me
rumbling down my phantom thigh
breathing
on the layaway plan
ghastly pumpkin in the oven
languishing gracefully
your generosity in death
a carnival ride of fascination
like a broken bird
to tormented to hold
your preference
hors d’oeuvres of rat poison
and verse
for the thin air road
a smudged face poets last word
in crumbs of burnt onions and charred meat
your so pretty in penny loafers
bare legs dangling
In this homeless corridor sunken in your blackened
idol of release
and that stupid stare
your weight no longer measured in grief
i was born to late
to die with you
to save a pretty nymph in a downward spiral
precious fertilizer of poetry fields
i'm fixated on your suicide pose
but you're too busy being dead
to give a ****
my sweet eyed snob of smiling hooks
i'm obsessively obsessive
for what could never be
and is
am i not your fan,
your creep?
if i pulled you from the oven
and rattled life
no doubt, you'd be all **** and vinegar
i'd be your despicable hero
a vampire
like a straight jacket of love you hate
your dead now poet of twilight
and i'm left here reading your poems
telling you softly
they are the best poems ever
and making believe
you love me
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 3:17 PM UTC
By: David W. Clare
When it comes to shopping here's your key!
Don't bother walking Targets
aisle number three...
There is no competition anywhere!
Whether you need a loaf of bread, tools or underwear...
Walmart is around every corner just for you!
24 hours and a dozen smiles easy to see...
Prices so low; it's all almost free!
Toasters, fans, beds, loafers, bikes... Clean bathrooms open up for you all day and night...
Walmart offers parking under a big spot light!
Friendly attendants will treat you right...
The best security anywhere around!
Why bother shopping at any other place in town?
Crock Pots over on aisle 17!
...the best way to save money I've ever seen!
Walmart, Walmart!
Now you're shopping smart!
Your right at Home at Walmart !
(C) In perpetuity all rights reserved
(P) FilmNoirWorks
Dec 30, 2016
Dec 30, 2016 at 8:56 PM UTC
Third Date
She talked and talked and talked,
an East Coast, cultured accent;
"So what are you anyway,
half-German? *** really?
But you look so......British, I guess..."
He stroked her knee.
She gesticulated loudly,
and talked.
"So you were at Princeton,
WOW, that's impressive."
He squeezed her knee.
"I baked cupcakes on Friday night,
my Mom's recipe.
I don't even eat cupcakes,
what's that all about?!?!
He squeezed her other knee.
She wore a mid-thigh,
black and white dress,
swirls, that sort of thing,
interesting cleavage.
He was back on the first knee.
She looked Italian
(it was 'Ristorante Acqua al Duo' after all),
Amy Winehouse eye flares,
head swaying,
resting on her palms,
swaying again.
He had his back to me.
She fingered the wine glass,
tall and generous,
devoured
the last inch,
came up for air and talked again.
He wore a blazer
and cavalry twill pants,
loafers and no socks.
She was hot,
really hot,
fanned her brow with the dessert menu
"Tiramisu was so deeeelicious".
75 degrees on the Prudential window.
He perspired,
fidgeted,
loosened his collar,
looked for the waitress.
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 6:45 PM UTC
They walk beside me
always late for something.
Quickening loafers
compete against themselves
emphasising their importance.
Go!
Choking on their breath
in an over-zealous attempt to identify
What's freedom?
This fastened reality
Punctures inner peace
my energy disperses
Like a balloon buzzing as it loses momentum.
When did Life become a marathon?
When will I decide where I want to be?
Conversations shout themselves out..
an energetic argument before their words reach the air..
Will you ever confront your disguised pains?
My mind's elsewhere..
I'm trying to figure out
the last time I saw your body unclench itself.
And i'm a little confused,
because I don't know whether to accept your denial
or
continue to disconnect from reality.
And I question,
If we all mirror eachother, what part of myself cannot find peace in you?
I observe this anxiety in motion
stuck forever in a hurry
leading itself down roads that end where they began.
And I wonder,
*If their legs were to rest
would they have to pick their head up from the floor?*
Like buddhas in a city,
their lives are a fast forwarded tomorrow
as the present hurries along.
And I ponder,
Does the truth stop blinding when silence doesn't teach?
A quickening motion
Changing with every step.
Acceleration..
human race...
Go!
Chasing of thy death..
Apr 17, 2012
Apr 17, 2012 at 7:15 PM UTC
Cracked vinyl bus seats
Windows that have heard the stories of every passanger smeared with truth
The spit of the elderly woman who fell asleep while reminiscing about the son whom she's visiting that she hasn't seen in 35 years
The stubbled cheeks of the older gentleman who is counting the pennies in his pocket on his way to the store to get food for his daughter
The knitted scarf of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling her coat closer to her in an attempt to warm herself because it was the only article of clothing she could afford that year
The ponytail of the teenaged girl who is tracing the scars on her wrist from the last time she tried to end her life
They congregate for a common purpose, but
The doors to their hearts open like the hinged door, letting anyone haphazardly stumble in for a moment,
And
Their souls are brighter than the lights of the megabus as they are honest with themselves for even just a minute
And their walls are temporarily demolished because who would ever have to lie about who they are on a greyhound bus?
Smooth polished church pews
Floors that have been tread upon by every saint stained with lies
The flats of the elderly woman who is nodding off while pretending to pray for the son whom she hasn't spoken to in 35 years
The loafers of the older gentleman who is calculating the amount of money he can sneak from the spagetti dinner fund without getting caught
The high heels of the middle-aged woman who is slowly pulling up her skirt on one side in an attempt to catch the attention of the younger men further down the pew, while her husband holds her hand on the other
The tennis shoes of the teenaged girl who is tracing the bruises under her blouse from the last time she started a fight with her boyfriend
They congregate for a common purpose, but
Their masks are painted on more elaborately than the Sistine Chapel
And
Their lies are built up more intricately than the stained-glass windows that surround them
As they read their words to live by from a book collecting dust in drawers throughout America because who could be anything but holy in a church?
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
ahoy,
all of you,
shoppers,
loafers,
lechers,
ladies...
could you please
tie your handkerchiefs
and dupattas*
together
and all of it
to the end
of a stone
and fling it to
this open window
?
?
?
so that I
can climb
down
and flee
What?
Louder!
Yes,
I could have
just asked
the boss
but escape
makes it
so much
more alive
You
See
I
need
such
kicks
from
time
to
time
May 8, 2016
May 8, 2016 at 9:19 AM UTC
She swirls a small package
Of white and pink candies,
Gripped by her thumb and index
With long tipped pearl finger tips.
Oh my she is quite pretty indeed
With her auburn brown hair
Tied up in a short ponytail.
And yet she isn't clothed in
Typical "womenly" garments,
No she wears a navy blue sweatshirt,
Jean shorts with a
Crochet pattern on the bottom,
And beige loafers.
And yet she is beautiful.
She is quite beautiful indeed.
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC
boy finds brand new camera in his Christmas stocking
photographs the night sky, Polaroid comes out dark
tiny feet slide inside of Daddy's loafers
tie drags on the ground between chubby legs
there's something hiding under the bed, Dad
never saw anything
said night sky, only saw dark
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 11:02 PM UTC
plug-in your head music
remember being young
on a pogo stick
a unicycle
with training wheels
under
sunshine of your
love
o’ shine on
you crazy
diamond
run in the
jungle
feel the rain
on sunny day
and let it be
misunderstood
stop your moon tears?
run in Reeboks?
come on
you painter of
words
chew
good & plenty
plant
lime lima beans
kaleidoscope kale
juicy fruit gum
harvest
magenta mangos
paisley peaches
or go to an auction
bid on
T-bone
bubble gum
sprout beans
Tahitian telecaster
pre-rolled wagon wheel
sweet sixteen candles
Hound Dog Taylor’s
Brownie McGhee loafers
no?
yes?
don’t change
your lunatic fringe
in twilight’s open season
read
The Hidden Singer
dance
boogie woogie
cha-cha-cha
outside the house of the rising sun
so turn it up, Mr. James
your big wheel
keeps on turnin’
groove
to the little bird
who sings and sings
© 2011 chuck a stetson
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 7:07 PM UTC
Cheers to the one that
finally makes it work, the
time the door stayed wide long
enough for a fall breeze in loafers or
corduroy pants to blow down the
walls of your heart and sit you
down on his patent leather futon
the laugh that stuck around to do
battle with every grizzled teardrop in the
middle of the afternoon
the chance worth taking because all
things can be generalized, but the
best can break free
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
restless summers swimming in lemonade
my shiny janes and your
mud sloshed loafers
swayed like the gulls of our
crayoned fence of a sky
daisies you would crown me
with rings of weeds i'd wed you
lightning bugs stain my lashes like my
fluorescent tears you brush away
dewdrops on my rose embroidered cheeks
i continue building forts armed with flashlights
with puppets of shade that guard me till morn
again i am locked within my tower feeling your
weight of shining armor as you take my locks as your stairway
but the night fades within you
i let down my hair
but you are not there
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
Recluse
beneath congestion of cigarette smoke
and spirits
a crippled voice
deteriorates
His mornings are bleak;
Rise
to the sink
to the shower
to the wardrobe
to the door
to meet the day
Slacks, overcoat, and loafers
topped off with some novelty tie
from the local drug store
He coasts along the brick-stone walk-ways
careful not to place his feet upon
cracks or cross a path with a black cat
A superstitious man he is
a white rabbits foot tucked beneath
his ankle socks
a turkey wishbone key-chain clanging against
his satin-lined pocket
and a four-leaf clover preserved in
saran-wrap pinned against his chest
With each stride
he nears the corner market
and purchases a pack of Perdomo
along with a bottle of unlabeled *****
concealing it bellow the buttons of the coat
He then exchanges with the cashier and exists
His journey leads him around the block
and passed pedestrians
only to be reunited with his stoop
The cold concrete is inviting
he sets himself in
on the third step
and prods his pockets
removing his lite and Perdomo's
for better
use
aflame they go
between crackled lips
Greeted with the sour beverage
his face molds like dry leather
crinkles and all
in reaction to the addicting
bitterness
His eyes pick out people from a crowd
the business man who hurries on by
to important to give a hoot
the youth of who laugh in mockery
yet to prideful to admit they're foolish
the tourist twisting the map above their face
searching corner streets a sign
the woman who bustles her child through
avoiding contact
with the man
who sits on the stoop
Not person goes by that
he wishes he were
he is perfect
perfectly content
in his subliminal life
The smoke rises and falls
from his throat
he wheezes
averting from his train of thought
it wasn't important either way
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 12:22 AM UTC
Pantywaist,
This shows no taste.
Light in the loafers,
Maybe for gofers.
Squats to ***
Who? Not me!
Limp-wristed,
It it’s twisted, maybe.
***** and sissified,
Maybe somebody lied.
*** and ******
You’re a bigot.
Bigass Fruit,
Zoot and all root.
Tuttifruity,
Call to gay duty.
Half a man,
Sometimes better than.
Tinkerbell,
Go to hell.
Airy-fairy,
You’re just scary.
******** bandit,
I can’t stand it.
***********
Bigass *******
Silly queen,
Quit being mean.
Flutter-by,
Can’t pronounce butterfly?
*****
Don’t get handsy, mate!
Nancy boy.
Political ploy.
Just some of the words
We gays have all heard
With each imprecation
The implication
Is that we are sick,
Definitely twisted,
And the end result
Is that each insult
Pushes the speaker
Further away, and weakens
The hold on a reality
That homosexuality
Is just another normality.
In short, reality.
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 2:16 PM UTC
With a flap of pink-flamingo wings,
whoosh of speedboats in the bay
the rear-swinging amble of
burnished girls in bikinis
“Miami Vice” launched itself
week after week
as a thoroughly ****** delight.
The show:
a pop-culture event
the media poetry
of the ******* era.
Two cocky
not very talented
male beauties who
spoke in innuendos
and dressed in pink T-shirts
Armani and sockless loafers.
The best episodes
were shot and
cut like movies and
glowed with neon and
pastels and
party lights in stucco mansions.
The varieties of pleasure under
an endless American sun.
(From the New Yorker article entitled, “Hot and Bothered.”)
Feb 23, 2013
Feb 23, 2013 at 11:32 PM UTC
Sneakers, loafers, sandals, chelsea,
stilettos, wedges, platform, scarpin
I think it's fine to categorize shoes 'cause they serve different purposes
Dress pants, jeans, corduroy pants,
leggings, chinos pants, sweat pants
I think it's fine to categorize pants 'cause they serve different purposes
Black, white, brown, fat, athletic, skinny,
rich, poor, smart, introvert, extrovert, gay, lesbian, straight, Christian, Muslim
I don't think it's fine to categorize humans because we are all ONE from the same SOURCE with the same PURPOSE!
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 9:34 AM UTC
He was too lazy
to put pennies in his loafers
and too cheap
to offer a penny for your thoughts
nickel & diming
his way through life
until the pennies had no value
and the thoughts weren't cost effective
and the income was disposable
and the outcome was predictable.
Aug 29, 2016
Aug 29, 2016 at 6:44 PM UTC
Please, sit down .
Yes.
We all have purpose in life .
The laws of gravity makes us ....
Click Clack.
Some human beings say they can't walk.
In shoes that is .
Rather they be high heels or penny loafers.
The blood in the vessels of our hearts..
Click Clack.
Giving us the double .
The double feeling to live .
Humans refuse to just think deep and focus .
Focus on what they could actually be in life ....
Focus on life changing moments .
Focus on the click clacking.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 11:54 PM UTC
.
Looking on
this expanse that encircles me,
closing in during open hours,
unlocking doors I can’t seem to walk through
Stairways of rotted, termite eaten steps
each with my name painted on them,
creaking underfoot,
losing to the weight of
long lines at self serve counters
wrapping around as if
nothing is free but here
for some reason it is
And I stand right in the middle
alone in this ocean of faces,
polo shirts and penny loafers
staring at cell phone screens,
calling someone,
talking with their hands,
hands free?
Paying it forward,
coffee for the next guy in line,
but not me
For I am just here, anywhere,
somewhere like this,
a thing plopped down,
fallen from the sky,
splattering on the earth,
consumed by the soil,
muddied footprints and all
trudging through the wilderness,
carving a path of existence
breaking branches and
scattering bread crumbs
Still I am me,
standing tall among the taller,
enjoying the shade,
sipping lemonade and eating apple dumplings,
pushing, not pulling forward,
dreaming, (of course)
regardless of tire tracks and scars
or pointed fingers,
Pounding the pavement,
laying a foundation,
driven beyond
Parking lot base,
asphalt themed destinations,
a checkerboard of last rites and dead batteries,
yellow lines on the horizon,
handicapped up front
Looking out over the valley,
watching the world go by,
admiring the beauty,
loving life,
rejoicing in the fact
that it is all so immensely
vast . . .
as am I
Jul 22, 2016
Jul 22, 2016 at 8:28 AM UTC
i have found a patch
of quietude in my busy
day and spend it outdoors.
under a dovegrey, marshmallowed sky
and with the gossip of
two brown house sparrow
wifes.
i take my loafers off
and share the fragent warmth of the earth
with the colony of oiled, black skinks
and the shy, baby
blue tongue.
and i sit on a log...
and breathe..
long and deep...
restrorative sighing.
then appearing above us all, a kite or eagle, rides the wind in circles....perhaps...
the baby blue tongue,
is right to be shy...
in the distance
the kookaburra chuckles
and the lorikeets squabble
and people murmur and shout.
too soon,
my respite is over.
then it is shoes on,
and back to the computer screen and desk....
but at least i had a few moment's grace...
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 12:51 AM UTC
Barefoot, and exhausted she enters the plantation,
The sound of leather loafers move towards the counter,
Decadent heat swells across her forehead making sweat shiver down her temples,
*Sweaty palms ****** a decorated mug, and contaminate the elixir with milk,*
Her dark hands desperately search for more beans from the plants, before giving up and filling up her sack and returning to the village,
spices and sugar sweeten the blow, of knowing the bitterness of black coffee,
The sun is an enemy, and pelts her forehead with heat as she returns to the place called home,
Artificial winds cool down the man of many titles, as he pretends to take an interest in the international affairs presented in his daily newspaper while waiting for the finishing touches to his brew,
the load begins to take its toil on her back and she drops the sack,
searching for a visa, meaningless coins are dropped on the coffee shop floor,
She immediately collapses in a frenzy to pick up the goods and dust them of with her fingers,
His eyes momentarily dart towards the silvered coins on the floor, and he ignores them and enters his card into the machine,
‘These are still good, they must still be good, they’ll never know, we can still sell them’ she convinces herself as she clasped the coffee beans into the sack,
‘Aren’t you gonna pick that up sir’ , ‘Um, yeah probably afterwards’ he laughs at the cashiers unconscious desire to obtain as much money in the tip jar as possible,
She picks up her sack and continues walking up the hill, until eventually shanty huts are in sight,
*a printed off receipt is quickly ******* up into a ball in his pants-suit and he obliges himself with a sip as he strolls towards the doors,*
Her faint body seems to motion towards the ground, but by this time other villagers have spotted her and begin running towards her, her lifeless body is circled by their glances,
‘Too bitter… it needs to be diluted’
‘Spices and sugar sweeten the blow, of knowing the bitterness of black coffee’
Aug 1, 2011
Aug 1, 2011 at 1:42 AM UTC
Numbles is a fictitious place, a state of mind.
I go there from time to time
in search of rhyme and reason
When required
Here in Numbles The calliope plays non stop
words fall from the hopper neatly written out,
written neatly on white plastic ***** the size of owl's eggs.
They roll down the chute and line up
in rational sentences of pure opaque poetry.
Unabashed and shameless a bit cocky eh wot.
An I dont give a dam a style like the
party girl who just hit her liquor limit
She has one shoe in her hand and her purse
in the other Tipsy?
I used to get budded, drop a 33 LP
diamond needle with a brush,
Wax was a choice over tape or disc
just a better eargasmic experience.
Numbles here I come.
Reverse engineering the things I'd been hearing
Oz .The sun shone in neon streams and the
gusting breezes tasted like cool peppermint schnapps
The cops wore broad pinstripes and penny loafers.
A storybook ending every time
The pieces of the poem puzzles
cake walked with spated shoes .
like homing pigeons on the wing
to roost and coo, they knew.
Numbles is the place where
the sky was ever-blue.
I still day trip to that magical place
sans herbalsupplimentation.
or distilledfermentation.
Sleepdeprivation gets me to the towns square
All my old friends are there
still.
.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:01 AM UTC