"loveseat" poems
*His green eyes stare into mine
Glistening in the candlelight
Shifting their gaze as it flickers
He kisses my hands and up my arms
Melting my heart and the snow*
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
All dimples and curls and pigeon toes when sitting,
purple; and gold dangles
light-skinned girl, dark-skinned girl
depending on the translation
hips swivel to the left, ******* that follow
in commanding black bras
and matching lacy *******
Rolling backwards into handstands for most *************
else on the loveseat
whipping love back and forth between the swell
beneath the shorts
and beneath the outer layers,
the lip gloss smiles and masquerades
beneath the veins and bone and guts:
there's a naked, quivering heater
switched on all year long
its dainty wiring peeking out,
the head of the cord puckered.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 1:28 AM UTC
Be patient, it might take some time. Just, let it build up. Don't uncross’em it will feel awesome. You should know yourself, what works best, rolling or rocking? Don't think about it, just relax. Use some muscle, the one between your legs. Hussle; ruffle and tussle, it’s like trying to make a puzzle fit; sometimes you gotta wiggle it a bit, a little bit.What’s wrong, you looked puzzled? You red, so into it. lights out; so intimate. Now try feeling between the lines, you have to focus a bit. Forget what you read; and what's been said; you won’t go blind, it’s all in your head. The only time you should lose site, is when you re-sight this vision in your head; closed eyes, on your loveseat, sofa or bed. Just repeat it in your head, like Simon said. **** around and hit the right button, you might wet the bed. My sign language tracing over your lips, repeating what I said. First come, first serve; you can't be beat. Just, listen to my voice, follow my lead. See, you don’t need to see men, to succeed, you got me.So. take your time, no rush. Relax, match your breathing with mine. slow, down, take your time.Touch your fingertip, to your little tip, and grind- press down harder, yeah, that is it.. Pause, fast, forward, left, right; rewind. Now, do all if that, one more time. But first, lick your fingertip, so your ******** rise and shine, glitterish. Your index, just slide, inside you appendix, cause I penned it; very specific. Here's another tip; curl your fingers, like a tongue would flick your upper lip - the thought alone should make you flip. Now your ******* soaking wet, that's my favorite. Just use your imagination; then go for it! Your heart will skip. Pace yourself, you can't cheat. Sped up your hearts rate, to your beat. You might have left a note to yourself, but I’m the one that wrote it all over your sheets!
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
They call it a Loveseat because it was designed for you to make love on it
We have to re-rate all those G-rated films with Loveseats in them
They imply ****** tension
And we don't want that exposed to our children!
It's the work of the devil!
I demand action on them now!
Can't you see i'm joking?
We're merely close to twenty years of this century
And it's only gotten more ridiculous
The future awaits
For more loveseat incidents
And people up in arms over tedious, pointless things that nobody should care about
But ISIS? That Egypitan babe has been dead for so long! What are you talking about?
There's no way that old darling is still alive?
Terrorism? What's that?
Is that the term they use when they see Loveseats in G movies?
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 7:50 PM UTC
When the world starts crumbling around me
I close my eyes and build.
A shelf here, our bed there;
a table for four, a porch for more;
Hardwood floors, soft pillows;
your record player, a piano;
framed photographs of ruins;
a loveseat piled with books.
When I start to question,
I start to build.
And in the long silences between us,
I am furnishing our home,
piece by piece,
until I forget the question,
and remember
that I,
that we,
are under construction.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
The setting of traps
has always seemed
like a tacit endorsement
of the mice.
Acknowledgement.
Validation.
Admission of failings as a homeowner –
(cracked baseboards or an unsealed gap in the door.)
We are usually responsible
for our own infestations, after all.
The relationship with the mice is codified
“you are vermin,
I am not.
I will ****
You will die.”
Thus the mice are transfigured,
Christ-like.
Frozen in fear,
frozen in time,
laid bare
on a sticky, chemical
altar of sacrifice.
Saviors
giving their lives
so that we may preserve
those unwanted crumbs
in the vacant space
between the couch and loveseat
where the vacuum won’t reach.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 8:24 AM UTC
late october,
today my heart is wandering,
I still listen to your music.
things I like fall in my lap and I pick up the phone to tell you,
someone I can hide behind
maybe I just like warm waists and strong arms
maybe I like feeling small,
I met this boy today, love,
he reminds me of home, of fresh tortillas wrapped in tinfoil
he reminds me of this summer, and of you.
he doesn't like the things we liked,
but he's a different fabric
and I am patching this idea that
we never stop loving anyone
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:19 AM UTC
I open the door-
three in the afternoon
my short hair windblown
and rain soaked
by the seven minute walk home
i've taken to taking
to avoid
the one who used to love me
i opened the door-
he was sitting there
too still to be in that purple chair
four feet from the door
that he only sits in
when the veins in his forehead
are popping out
themselves turning purple.
but, he was smiling;
that melancholy smile that makes me wonder,
even though i quit giving a ****
about him
when i was seven,
living with him in a bus
in a field, someplace.
with a sun lamp
and a *** plant
in the storage compartment
and she's lying there,
dressed, but barely awake
with that thin blue and white blanket
that she's had since he was young
draped over her
on that floral loveseat she's always had
a smile on her face
but tears in her eyes
he swivels the chair
to give me room to pass
but i ease instead
around the separating wall
through the kitchen
and down the hall.
a smile on my face
as i look back and he stands
that old chair complaining
as much as his back
he looks back at me
and i realize
why that look in his eyes
brought the same smile he wears
to my lips;
because he's realized
that i've won here,
that in six months
i'm gone
moving on
disconnecting myself
and becoming my own **** person
he's realized that he doesn't know me
never has
he's seen the way i shake
everytime he's less than twenty feet from me
heard
the waver in my voice
he's noticed the way
that even on good days
i open the door to the garage
five times at the most.
noticed the worry lines on my forehead
the gray hairs on my chin and head
my bitten fingernails
or the spot where I scratched
half of my mustache
right off my face
or, at least
i *** he has
hope he's realized that
there's no hope
for me and him
but
he hasn't
and that conversation
was just something else,
didn't even involve me
i can hope all i want
but until i take it all away
he's never gonna realize
that it isn't
Him
winning here
never has been
©Brandon Webb
2012
Dec 6, 2012
Dec 6, 2012 at 2:42 PM UTC
I give my body up
To anyone that asks,
Just to have 30 minutes
Of artificial love unmasked
But when it’s all done,
It’s over too soon,
My face plunges my hands,
Tears turn my fingers to prunes
Like buzzing bees in a hive
They can’t seem to sit still,
On the edge of the loveseat paralyzed
With a defiled heart shaped box to fill
I’ve sampled it all
I’ve tried different styles,
I even bought new makeup
I toned and ran extra miles,
I bought myself new clothes
Hung the old with a noose,
Even with pained effort
They forever call me “loose”
So I starve, I suffer,
I pull food from my stomach,
I beg johns to stay but they leave,
After paying the hotel check
With nothing left I stare
Out into the dangerous distance,
With ripped, lace underwear
That to him, didn’t make a difference
Tomorrow I will try again
To make myself a debutante,
Easy gaunt bodies, and shiny hair,
Isn’t that what all guys want?
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
Bottle of Tums on the end-table
surrounded by an imprisoned fan;
a lava lamp of antacids, cornered by dead precious-metal presidents.
Some greying ceramic **** matriarch
has a bulb sprouting out of her head,
radiating fat yellow on the olive corner, also onto the loveseat.
I say, I should read.
I say, People don't like
one another, anymore.
She says, I want to be a doctor.
Work with animals, she said,
Help pets and people.
Days go by like the shush
following blurs of traffic.
Am I aging too soon;
Am I important enough
to care.
Try to sell me some
Pyramid Scheme ****
the man my age does--
the kid--
He wants sixty-five for
off-brand perfume. No way.
How about, he looks around,
the manager's discount: twenty.
I say no. I'm sorry. I can't help you.
He says no. He's sorry. He can't help himself.
An American filmography:
A Thief in Brooklyn, 1997,
Dirk Diggler Productions,
A 20 y/o man breaks into
apartments, stealing pills
from the elder renters.
Ghost Before Sundown, 2003,
Marythrone Image,
A woman suspects she is
a ghost and tries to come to
terms with never succeeding
in life.
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 8:27 PM UTC
soon enough I discovered
her neighbor calls him Caspar or Caspor
but it wasn't long
before I named him Auguste
he has claimed my love's apartment—
even hypnotized her to have ready
water and treats on one corner
but what impressed us most,
the first time he laid eyes on me,
he started rolling over and over me
on the loveseat
thus, he has seduced us entirely
every time he prances down the hall,
when the back door has been left slightly ajar,
our eyes light up—each hoping to be the one
he'll first approach for petting
~
©2016 Spiros Zafiris..channeled, spirit Harmony;
reaching into the poet's mind
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 6:16 PM UTC
She peered up at the moon
like it wasn’t even a mystery
just a pretty decoration
hung up on a nail in the sky.
The world was so simple to her,
nothing existed outside of
this suburban block.
The birds and squirrels were her play toys,
she was sure these endless trees
were made simply for her to climb on,
while the tops swayed
and taunted her with heights she’d never reached.
To others it seemed awfully callous
the way she treated this home,
like a hotel,
coming and going as she pleased,
but to me it was romantic
the way her whiskers brushed the door
on her way out,never promising she’d be back.
But,yet,she always turned up
napping on the loveseat
with a peculiar aura of aloof indifference,
often times a tiny,frail feather
nudged between her toes.
I’m glad she didn’t notice me watching,
glimpsing her life of simplicity,
as she watched the moon with great intent,
balancing atop a fence post,
on this corner of suburbia,
as only a cat could.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 10:49 PM UTC
I just firmly placed my hands
On the side of the loveseat armrest
And then walked my feet
Up the adjacent wall
Until my body was at
A 45 degree angle
To the floor.
I'm not sure,
Why
I did that.
But it was a good decision
I've never seen this room
From that point of view before.
Jul 29, 2017
Jul 29, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
It’s hard to live
A life un-private.
A seasonal home.
Sleeping on a loveseat,
In a room where the TV is always on.
Constant headaches.
Lights and sounds that stab.
She sits by screens
All
Day.
And wonders why she is sad.
I fear
It will begin to spread.
I can’t escape, especially not at night.
I think I’ll take a shower.
Jun 19, 2011
Jun 19, 2011 at 7:26 PM UTC
You were seated on the loveseat,
yet beside you, i couldn't be
made me feel...i, alone, would face eternity,
between us, lay an immeasurable spread...
your distance, was something hard to invade,
some kind of steel.....unthinkable to pierce
but, i broke your wall...fractured your fears
rose from my square pillows
defied my rules, my fears
fought your dominant shadows
I pushed you to the edge...i did leave you in rage,
ignored your dagger looks,
to give way to change
it took a while.......i thought long....what if........
.............................................................
so...i brought in soft buttered Spanish bread
thought i'd chill your rage, with fresh, iced lemonade
while you drank, i squeezed your hand,
teased you with a glance
a tickle here and there
til you grabbed my hand
ahh...i love your controlled smile...
from challenging moments...you and i rise
i'd say......we're worth every daring effort exerted,
Us two, on the loveseat,
side by side,
sitting comforted.
Sally
Copyright May 1, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 3:24 AM UTC
We wade and wait through the daily hate to
practice our fractured love each night.
We make and mate once it gets late, just
to have a day's worth of material to write.
Now you're the wet dreams
slowly rusting away my mettle,
and I just smile, nod, and
paint you a ****** portrait.
In the silence between dry heaves,
while waiting for my gorge to settle,
I pray to the porcelain god and
spit on my reflection in the toilet.
I venture outside then to choke on a smoke
and I **** your name into snowy leaves.
Can't afford a deathbed, I'm so ******* broke,
please just **** me on the loveseat.
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
“But what about all the things you told me?”
He asked her, quietly, his voice a faint, timid whisper,
More afraid of the answer than the question.
She stares motionless, not trusting her voice,
Knowing it will betray her... like before.
“You said you’d stay with me forever.”
A single tear rolled down her cheek,
As silent as the stars above, yet as loud as a rushing waterfall.
“You said we’d have a family together, a home.”
She was forced to sit down on the plush loveseat,
An ironic backdrop to the turmoil that was slowly unfolding.
“You said I was your one and only.”
She notices the trembling in his voice,
The soft, quivering whimper, much like a puppy,
That betrays he is close to tears.
“Your forever and always.”
She can hardly hear him, so she leans in closer,
Gazing into his watery eyes, swimming with honest tears.
“You said you had written my name on your heart.”
Mustering her strength, courage, and will, she responds:
“Only in pencil.”
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 2:49 PM UTC
"I fell in love with a fairytale."
Those were her words when I asked why our lives had become what they are now.
The first entrance to her flat, tapestries and flowers and shards of pottery assaulting me as soon as I set foot through the door. A six foot print of The Accolade embroidered like the Bayeux hanging in an alcove. The single rose I gave her placed in an empty wine bottle. She played Yo-Yo Ma on vinyl with something that looked like the first gramophone ever made. I always think of her now when I hear a cello, and whatever it is I'm doing at the time stops for the memory. I will always remember her curled up on that red loveseat like the empress she was to me. We first made love there, on old red satin or whatever it was. Corse to the touch, but beautiful. It was only after the first time that she would let me kiss her on the lips, like it was something allowed after passing a test. She never spoke of it, when or why she let me into her world, a world I had only ever been permitted to sojourn through before. The Kiss hung above her bed, and after she had fallen asleep the first night we lay there together I stared up at it with her in my arms thinking....thinking that I had been searching for this woman forever. I have not been the same man since that night. She became my faith.
You wouldn't know to see it now that we had bliss in this place for five years. Five years of being whole, of the absolute knowledge that we were exactly what we were supposed to be. There is nothing left of us here now. The door is gone. An explosion of some sort destroyed most of the living room. I believe her bedroom was used as a firing position for an anti-tank team at one point in the fighting. Shell casings are everywhere, all the glass is shattered and there are stains in abundance.
Where is she you ask?
I didn't want to believe what I first heard, but after seeing her face again I knew it was true. Oh, you know her well I'm sure since you were able to find me. She is the reason the front has been extended. She is the reason there is bread now, even if it isn't quite palatable. She is the reason so many more have died than necessary. Over here, let me show you who she is. She's on this poster, the valiant People's Commandante leading us into a glorious future. You know who she is now, serve her excellently I have no doubt. But before you do whatever it is you were sent to do I want you to know that I saved The Kiss before our city burned. You will never find it. And even if she refuses it now, once upon a time she had a different name. Once, when she loved me, her name was Ivy.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 11:10 PM UTC
Me at that oak table
Sitting on that couch
There in that room
of what was then
Our house
You on the loveseat
There by my side
We then together
in grandeurs
warm light
There is where
the good the bad
and the beautiful
transpired
Supposing all the tomorrows
were held within Our hand
The days then were precious
Now sadly never again
As I remember
how it all went
I think of you
lovely as an Angel
from Heaven sent
My eyes cannot see
through all of the tears
Thinking back on
the best of of Our life
of those most wonderful years
Since you've been gone
I must you then now tell
I'll see you in Heaven
because I've already
been there in Hell.
-R.
11.27.17
-LA
-4MAR
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 9:30 AM UTC
Her fingernails were square
and stretching for her cigarette;
Previously lost
next to papers, pens, magazines
and envelopes with short notes
she wrote herself
and never read.
She looked at Ro.
Her eyebrows pushed together
then pouted, sighed,
before lifting her fingers
pressed against
pearl pink lips
slipping Paul Mall in,
sipping it.
Between each clean breath
she’d say something idle to pass
the time it took to smoke.
Her thick grey hair peaked
from beneath yellow bleach
and she said something silly
about that too.
Her face was smooth and eyebrows thin
but she’d never mention it.
Burned down barely far
from her knuckles,
she pushed the ****
into an ashtray laying
on the arm of stained grey
loveseat.
Simultaneously as she was crossing
her feet she was sweeping
her focus on that chipped black tabled
looking for something…
Then got distracted.
Sep 20, 2015
Sep 20, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
Some hours later, night having fallen over Lisboa, It was Clara who sat in the loveseat while Ta'ra was asleep. Simon kept graveyard hours, partly from work, partly from an ingrained watchfulness that only ever left him in the small hours before dawn. So it was a usual occurrence for the two woman to sleep and wake and find him still active and awake, cooking or writing or at work, sometimes just staring aimlessly at the skyline of the Almafa. Clara was speaking of her loves and loyalties to him, no guitar for her though. Her gifts were the brush and her voice, both of which had always held a power over men. Her life had been one of passions only half felt, half lived, an object to be possessed by those she enraptured with a whisper in the ear or a sketch on a napkin.
"You speak of passion with such...disdain. As if it's something one could do without and be better off..." He looked up at her from the tile floor of the balcony where he was sitting crosslegged like some aesthetic. She smiled her full, rich smile down at him and then turned away, knowing this was a man she had tried to conquer, and failed. She had known he couldn't be swayed the way most were the first night in Tangier while waiting for the ferry. It had been her intention to barter passage from him for what most men think of as passion. Instead he brought them both to his apartment here as roommates, gotten papers for them, helped them start a life that wasn't that of a hunted thing. "Passion is a weakness that brings us away from ourselves, and presents us to someone else's lusts and wants and needs. In the end, we give all we have, and are emptied of life," she whispered, more to herself than Simon. He sighed as one who isn't sure whether he should speak or not. "You say that, and yet I'm attracted to that word, its implications, its many meanings to us. What you think of as passion is so different from what I think of it as, or Ta'ra for that matter." Clara gave a sharp ha! as response, as if she could divine something we mortals were ignorant of. "Isn't that what you two share," he asked, "passionate love? For eachothers' bodies? Your souls? I hear the two of you, envy it sometimes you know. I haven't been lost within someone completely like that in a very long time." Turning back and staring at him hard before speaking, she slowly and precisely told him that he would never understand what that really was between the two women, because he was a man.
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 3:35 AM UTC
Home is in
The cramped spaces
Where couch and loveseat
Fill a room
Where the kitchen
Doesn’t fit
More than two people
And the dishes
Cleaned by hands
Of my mother
Smoking menthol cigarettes
Home is in
The cheap plaster
Walls so thin
You hear
A thousand tragedies pass through
At night when you are sleeping
Babies crying
Mothers crying
Everybody crying
No one happy makes a sound
Home is in
This endless wheel
Of poverty sickness
No one asked for
Or wanted
On welfare
Selling loose cigarettes
Forty ounce malt liquor
Six packs
Emptied
Friday’s hunger
Home is where
Old ladies rent
Single bedroom units
With no air conditioning
Alone with
Endless birdfeeders
And white bread
On the lawn
Out the window
Home is where
Hardwood floors are scarred
With rearrangement
Constant variation
Definitions shifting
Under orange parking lot
Floodlights
Obscuring night’s blessing
Home is where
I see into the lives
Of a thousand strangers
Never talking
Where children play
Identity games
In the park
Home is in
The Christmas lights
Strung on the windows
Carelessly by neighbors
Or in the wreath
My mother hangs
To signal autumn
Home is
Buttered bread and noodles
When there’s nothing else to eat
It’s a movie
You’ve seen a thousand times
And still laugh at
It’s the clothesline
My grandfather strung up
In the basement
It’s the gangs of children
That secretly run the streets
It’s in the identical faces
All spilling light
Out onto the pavement
Home is not a place
It is a collection of universes
All spilling into one another
Mixing in infinity
Blending forms
Home is the embarrassment I felt
When we turned onto my street
And the realization that
I’ve got it better than anyone I know
Home is where the world ends
And where we are all secretly trying
To get back to
Feb 21, 2016
Feb 21, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
Weeks spent battling inside,
Fumbling with words,
Looking for the right tone,
So you knew that you hurt
My soul, and the soul
Doesn’t recover so easily.
We sat down on the loveseat,
Pressed into the armrests,
And I found the right time
To speak my truth.
You listened with ears
On edge, ready to argue,
Never conceding an inch
So you could win.
And you won
Because you know
I won’t fight.
You walked away
with shoulders held high,
And a crooked smile on your face,
While I’m left alone to
Bottle everything up,
So it never comes out again.
Dec 27, 2024
Dec 27, 2024 at 6:56 PM UTC
Sleeping on a loveseat
in a crowded living room
waking up in the morning
tap tap tap on my leg
"You have to babysit," she says,
walking out the door with her husband
My mother, oh my mother
left me here again,
with three kids
I know she has to work,
I know she's got bills to pay
but I wish I had some time to myself
to be 16
like I'll never be again
I want to learn to drive,
I want to catch fireflies at 12 a.m
with bare feet sliding in the dewy grass
I'm only 16 my brain says
no, wait, not even 16
not yet
I want to learn to make my own mistakes
and not have to be an influence
I know this is my life..
but I wish I didn't sleep all the time.
Depressed, anxiety
I really wonder what's wrong with me
I want to love myself
like the love I give to everybody else
I want to get good grades
and kiss the night away
I want to cuddle up in a big warm bed
beside my lovely
but no
I'm sleeping on a loveseat
in a crowded living room
wondering what's wrong with me
to wake up in the morning
to birds singing the same tune.
Jul 1, 2016
Jul 1, 2016 at 12:27 AM UTC