"martens" poems
Once I knew a spider
wore Doc Martens on his feet,
eight holes on eight hairy legs
he wasn't too discrete.
He rode a lengthy shadow
while he stomped around the floor
this micro “muy macho”
unabashedly cocksure
I trapped him in a glass one night
And told him at the door
“My wife she doesn't like you
don’t you come around no more”
But spiders rarely listen
and ignoring my request
next evening he returned once more
our octo-booted guest
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
caramel macchiato flavored coffee with mint cigarette flavored kisses with your dreamboat lover is the quintessence of what i call "perfection". if there was a way to describe the way your lips feel against mine, i could only describe it as "cigarettes and coffee". cigarettes and coffee isn't simply consuming caffeine or inhaling tobacco in your lungs, it's sitting on the roof at 1 am looking at the stars with a blanket around the both of you. it's laying in the grass with a slight breeze blowing making smoke rings between the arduous kisses. it's simply sipping a vanilla latte on the corner of a new york city street with a cigarette in your hand, making swirls of smoke as more ash forms above the filter, looking like some sort of bohemian gods. it's walking along a deserted sidewalk in your black jeans and doc martens with a big t-shirt and coke bottle sunglasses on with your lover on your hip and your menthol in one hand and philter in another. "cigarettes and coffee" is whatever you can interpret as pure bliss; it's simply whatever makes you happy and whatever makes you want to sit in the grass all night and talk about anything and everything. there's a lot of people that would argue there's no beauty to the feel of tobacco in your lungs and arabica in your mouth, but evidently, they've never tried cigarettes and coffee.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 8:18 AM UTC
a candy apple red heritage soft-tail classic
on a rusted dirt road
i am built of where i've been
the mango groves
the east and west coast
and every camp-ground in canada
this map is my home
let me tuck you into the folds
and sing you to sleep
some place sweet
where the air smells of earth and rain
don't let the concrete tame you
the road under foot is not measured by the steps necessary to travel it
but the way one migrates over the breaking soil
resting between where we are and where we'll be
when our dreams run free
and the tent's set in the pines
barefoot
running shoes
doc martens
thumb to the sky
pack on my back
black top under bridgestones
let us fly
let us soar
s'go
i'll take you with me
like my sleeping bag
and skinning knife
and canteen
be the water that i drink
fuel the fires that propel this engine
drive me to the end of the road
where one can only go by foot
and feather
and foolishness
let's disappear in the fog of the north
the mud of the east
the heat of the south
the haze of the west
let's find ourselves in the topography of folded bodies
tangled up in a flesh scented tent
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
goth girl
wearing pastel
doc martens
and black leather
submit
voluntarily
kneel before me
as your master
enslaves you
with this collar
May 15, 2021
May 15, 2021 at 6:51 PM UTC
along emilys hill road
the trees are bare
she's skipping stones
across st martens creek
as she turns
smiling my name
her breath comes out
white clouds
mingles
and hangs in the air
the quiet
stillness
in her eyes
she sees something
in me
that I can't
see
and that s why
i love her so
emilys hill road
unchanged
the trees are bare
she's skipping stones
across
st. martins creek
I believe that's the way
I remember her best
Dec 22, 2020
Dec 22, 2020 at 5:02 PM UTC
Heroine, and our hero...
Breaking the bad souls into half
We don't give a **** it's our time to laugh
Heavens await as the shore brings us gifts
She lions dressed in polka dots and Doc Martens
Daily milking makes them smarter
Trees in the forest, land masses rift
The time has come to lose your number
Jenny in a hammock, sleep and slumber
Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
I bought some Dr. Martens
a leather jacket to go with
T-shirts, logo'd
Nirvana, *** Pistols, Incubus
but what I wanted to buy
was the swagger
the intense feeling
of not giving a ****
I'm going to live forever
and there's nothing you can do
about it
invincible
with attitude
spitting in the street
I used to watch The ******
Motorhead
Conflict
I was there as the Police
went in hard on horseback
but the only attitude I found
was the young kid serving
looking me up and down
thinking
midlife crisis
you fat, balding
grey haired old ***
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
**** and chips
buried in the bass-line
All shaken heads tossed
listening to the misadventures of a shit-talker
Her lips taught and dry
sporting a second skin of ripped denim
Thick eyelashes caked in spiderwebs
Hustling on doc martens
crunching teeth beneath toes
Ankles taught with leather
A pretty ***** touched
like flowers dipped in chalk
stuck in choke it down memories
Quietly screaming
look for me
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 2:51 PM UTC
I have grown tired,
After only a short twenty years,
Of being something for your eyes.
Tired of slurred compliments,
Uttered from behind glazed eyes,
And catching eyes flick up
from where they had been stuck-
Wow! This person has *******
Sick of hearing calls and jeers,
shouted from across the street,
from inside of a car,
from the base of an over-sexualised,
and over-sexualising brain.
And so in an attempt to remove myself from such ********
I have been de-sexualising myself.
I wear long, ill-fitting trousers,
Baggy tops, and thick Doc Martens.
I pull up hair up,
Put my glasses on,
I do not bother with make-up.
I glare and I scowl.
Yet still unwanted attention
Has been able to find me.
Still you grab and grasp at me,
As if I were but a toy at your disposal.
I turned to one,
and looking in his eyes,
I clearly said "No.".
A dog, a child, a human,
Would have understood me;
Yet he did not.
I turned again when his hands didn't stop.
**** off, I said No."
"Slap me, baby, I'm sorry!"
He leered, not sorry in the least.
"I'm not going to hit you.
I'm saying no,
and you're going to respect that."
He left for a moment,
Only to return as handsy as before.
I tell you honestly,
I have no idea
What more I'd need to do
To get some people to see me
Not as a real-life *** toy,
But as a *******
human
being.
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 8:56 PM UTC
Let's stand around and talk about taxes and crime
Or watch it on t.v
Cool people only getting cooler
As alcohol leaks
I think I remeber leaving a party with you and falling asleep
on a dew covered hill
But I woke up in my bed
The shirt you had warn
Was pink and white through the haze
Remebering your face
But I still couldn't think your name
...I remember that you said you liked only
The old starwars
And your favorite Zelda
Ocorina of time
You got high with me and watched adventure time
And talked to me about the effects of ether on the human mind
You liked ska and doc martens
With only black laces
Japanese tea pots
BC ***
Black Jack Davey
Tattooed on your neck
You told me you were fourteen
When you last wore black lipstick.
"Far out"
Yellow Submarine
Mushroom picker
The
Tingling of your spine
As it creeps up your neck
I was about to fall away to oblivion
Until I saw your smiling teeth
I got all the way to work without noticing
Jen
And your number on my wrist
Jan 10, 2012
Jan 10, 2012 at 12:59 AM UTC
as the petals descended
i journeyed to the market
swiftly, dr martens thundered
along the clear path
a distant smell of dutch waffles
filling nostrils, though i
had been distracted by the man
plucking the violin, its sound
almost weeping. admiring the nearby canal,
i took a breath of contentment.
serenity.
Jul 6, 2015
Jul 6, 2015 at 8:14 PM UTC
The years of being constantly knocked down are forever gone.
No more heart on her sleeve and clenched fists.
The suffocated voice inside her has grown strong.
She speaks louder than ever, and no one dares to go against her.
The fear in her eyes is replaced by vengance.
A fierce, unpredictable rebel is born.
Heading for war.
She's now ready for anything and anyone.
The most beautiful, savage beast anyone has ever laid eyes on.
With fire in her eyes, purple lipstick and Dr. Martens she is now waiting.
To watch her enemies crumble beneath her feet.
And she breaks into that lethal smile of hers that only she possesses.
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 4:16 AM UTC
All the pretty girls wear Doc Martens
And chew bubble gum.
All the pretty girls bite their bottom lips,
Kiss boys with blood
Rolling down their chins.
All the pretty girls wraps themselves up
In apologies meant for their mothers.
Pretty girls are heard, not seen.
Pretty girls forget their favorite poems
As they snort lines of *******
In their boyfriends bathroom.
Pretty girls handcuff themselves
To headboards of beds
In a desperate attempt to stop
Biting their nails.
Pretty girls complain about wolves
Howling in their heads.
Pretty girls want to be like
Other pretty girls.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 4:47 PM UTC
I bet you wouldn't put those tattoos on your gravestone
Not that's it's any of my business,
But you look like an idiot,
And I heard you say that girls name and it ain't the same as the one on your neck as your necking today,
Is it mate,
And I don't mean to come across boring,
But I'm sure your mothers name ain't Tory either.
Necks covered in angel wings,
and misdemeanours;
I hope there's someone watching over you to see you make those mistakes.
It looks pretty cool though - make no mistakes.
But I can see through your thick rimmed spectacles.
Making a spectacle of yourself when you can clearly see.
A small package bugling through your skinny jeans
And of course Dr Martens,
And a quiff that's bleached.
Farewell flower child,
Don't look so amazed and glare,
When people stare at you and your down right ridiculous tattoos,
On the platform after me that's a par for you,
I was only passing through,
With naked skin,
Untouched by ink.
You would think I didn't want to leave a mark in this world were in.
Feb 13, 2016
Feb 13, 2016 at 8:45 AM UTC
I’d like a black poets’ suit
single breasted
poets’ uniform
a suit
& where would I acquire
the suit
I now desire?
Is there a specialist tailor
dressing
the bards of our nation
so similarly
selecting incorrectly
the size skilfully
artfully adding angst ridden
creases
Around the thighs
Shaping bulging pockets
As if a tome of verse
Had just been removed
and ensuring that the sleeves
Were roll-upable
For pub gigs
I’d like a poets suit
in black
well weathered from
earnest waiting
nay celebrating
rail sides in winter
& the last train home
I’d like some Doctor Martens
black & comfortable
for performing in
and neutral fashion wise
in the eyes
of those that look
beyond the book
And I’ll wear them
With my poets suit
My white(ish) shirt
& splendid spectacles
& not only
Will I look like a 'poet'
But I'll feel like one too
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 8:49 AM UTC
Mud bath
Doc Martens
Back of head
Off the beaten path
Still beaten
But at least not dead
**** off, they said
Don't understand what I did
But was
Drowning in the ground
One day they'll come around
To me
Doc Martens
Back of head
Off the beaten path
Still,
Beaten
Dead.
Sep 1, 2020
Sep 1, 2020 at 12:17 PM UTC
Early morning before
anyone has ordered coffee
and I feel delicate in the dewy
sun with the heater on low
at my ankles, I reorganize
the drawer below the register
gingerly feeling at staples and
rubberbands, Caleb watches from
the corner on tea with raspberry
in doc martens and ***** trousers
I wonder if I seem as pretty as I
feel or if he feels the staples too and
the dust from gift cards, if my hair
flares out in the light, if I am a brilliant
solar eclipse.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 3:52 PM UTC
im in love with a girl who shakes her head with a cute sigh and smile when i tell her something nice
im in love with a girl who wears cosby knitted sweaters, and responds to my utter nonsense i tend to say
im in love with a girl who makes any destination easy to reach if you hold her hand tight enough
im in love with a girl who i wouldn't mind skydiving with
mother, im in love with a girl who doesn't believe in what you believe in
im in love with a girl that makes me question if aliens are real or not
i used to be so sure of things, now im not
and im most grateful to be part of such an insight of things
im in love with a girl who is anything but a common misconception
im in love with a girl who should smile more often to brighten the days of others, because it brightens mine
im in love with a girl who has her happiness scattered like raindrops on a car window
im in love with a girl who I've adored since the 8th grade
im in love with a girl who puts my ****** bones to work when i smile
im in love with a girl who ive always been proud of standing next to
im in love with the girl who wears doc martens boots and has the eye brows of a model
im in love with a girl named Denisse
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 5:39 AM UTC
I'm a second hand smoker most nights.
I stare into the tip of the burning cigarette **** waiting for the ash to fall and slowly float onto my tattered, yellow converse.
Each breath deeper than the next. His lips smothering the end until it reaches the filter.
Nothing left but a black and yellow nub. Its life, ****** dry.
With a flick of his finger, it falls to the ground in slow motion. Like we're in an old black and white film.
His cracked black doc martens crushing everything that was left of that tiny cigarette.
We leave, and it just lies there.
As if it were melted into the gravel.
Ripped to shreds and forgotten.
Huh.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 11:12 AM UTC
Let me tell you about my best friend. He is a trigger, pointed right at me. He is the last moment before dusk - a crisp line of color amidst a wide stretch of grey. With exotic lips, lush with an obscene shade of red-pink. Stout sturdy fingers feed into the wrist upon which I tug so that he is forever hurdling towards me. His limbs are animated by hesitance and laughter. his every pore a perfect seal. teeth like ivory, used delicately to inflict a pain pleasantly. His mind is an etch-a-sketch, a single line of thought expands into an organized madness. he is a man of many sounds, all of which tell you something about him - he is eager, sincere, boyish, enigmatic, pure. eyes alive like two magnetic coils, sizzling like a heated brand. he is more certain of the flicks of his tongue than the movement of his body and this speaks to his priority. I've never seen a man more willing to love imperfect things. a patron saint in doc martens. he is ever unintentionally the accumulation of these things, to which the sum is incalculable.
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 11:04 AM UTC
i thought love only existed in hollywood movies,
and then life, but in life, everything
*****
i guess i was drawn to the parts you
hated about yourself, maybe because
i know how to pick them
halsey sung that she liked the bad
guys, and then i wrote this poem
and she took it back
i have the power of a thousand hurricanes
i am a pair of worn out doc martens
i am the armageddon
and men don't know ****
i ain't a trap queen, but i don't
fear ****
i could love the entire seven billion,
and no one would be like
you
but when you look at me
i see nothing but your eyes
when you leave me
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 3:50 PM UTC
Beyond the rusty and almost illegible "NO DUMPING" sign, lies the old dump. Beyond the first layer of recently deposited ******* leftovers of the occasional hobo alcoholic or teen partiers, is the heavy underbrush, a thicket so thick. Beyond that, you begin to get into the good stuff. Waylaid remnants of yesteryears all bungled and tossed about, with plenty of new inhabitants (hatchlings and their recent refugee Canadian geese parents) calmly making good of what surrounds. Lots of rot, as it all sits creekside, gives malodorous inclinations of fishy remains, the raccoons' and martens' cast-offs. Beyond, and beyond further that, if you have stomach enough and don't mind mustering about with muskrats, is a nifty cache. Trinkets are found amongst heaps of broken glass in the beyond beyond regions. Whole or only slightly chipped vessels are gold. Especially, ones that may say, "Dr. Whosie's Whatever Wonderful Tonic Water." Those are the best.
Amongst a treasure trove as this, in its paragon of days gone by, is also a seepage of what may not be as good as the good doctor ordered. It is arsenic, and other carcinogenic pollutants, things unheard of, that would make your molecular epidemiology stand on end. Things an Industrial Revolution left behind, the not so pretty things we find, but do not see. Seepage that sinks into water, under our skin, into Leukemic bones, and beyond words' worries of families affected. Beyond all this, is us, and by stirring it up, we are given a question. Is it better to leave what's left behind in its depths, or are we to pull it out, likely spreading more about, as well as what may be residually left unfound, or do we just stop and think? And maybe get a new "NO DUMPING" sign. Thank you for allowing me this whine. This has been my dump.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:39 AM UTC
I'm death in Doc Martens.
With mint green fingers.
Louis Armstrong hold me down.
This is going to be a long winter.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 2:44 AM UTC
A friend of mine
Got some white
Doc martens boots
Processed to put flowers in the
One of the boots
A daisy
Sun flower
And a lilac
And put it as the center piece
For the coffee table
Feb 21, 2021
Feb 21, 2021 at 9:46 AM UTC
so she puts on her scratched Doc Martens with the mud-stricken laces - because that’s what she wants to wear - swish and flicks the stick so the surf of her eyes have raven wings - because that’s how she likes to do it - strikes her lips Beauregarde blue - plonks a fedora atop her tiers of panther-black hair - because it’s her favourite colour - her favourite hat - wriggles on three rings - her grandmother’s, mother’s, and the one from Amsterdam - pins the badge GIRLS DO NOT DRESS FOR BOYS on her fluff-stippled dress - because she’s in the mood to wear it - because it feels comfortable - prods a white trinket in her ear that gushes Bikini **** - because she’s feeling like a rebel - fishes for a fiver for bus fare - knows the driver will silently judge her - knows the thirty-something mother will - knows the raisin-faced cane-in-hand man will as well - knows she doesn’t care - sun javelins in from the windows - feels great looks good her version of girl - later when her friends call they call her Wednesday - her kisses tasting of blueberry pie
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 4:42 PM UTC