"nylons" poems
The sewer stink of street trash
marries the scent of desire
veiled in crimson shadows
reflected on the damp pavement
Thoughts silenced by the gasp
of nylons being shredded by possibility
Teeth grip then slip
on the sweat of a humid night
Fireball burns sweet
as night lands on the flesh in city soot
a grit that makes every movement
a sanguinary promise
forged on the edge of pain
Owned. Taken. Willed.
Filled with primal intoxication
that turns warm city nights
into shameless memories
wrapped in the stink of street trash
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 4:28 AM UTC
Bluto, the world’s strongest man, could tear bread loaf-sized pieces off a steel-belted tractor tire with his bare hands.
But he could not lift a single smithereen of his sensitive Piscean heart when Lily, the luscious, leggy Leo trapeze artist, left him for steely-eyed Arien Karl, the literate and literary lion tamer.
Horoscopic Circus, Act II
She was a Cancer Dragon. Like catnip to the Piscean Tiger, whose feline DNA was his Achilles heel. Especially when she wore heels. And nylons. The end is nylon, he thought. I love you she said. I love you more he affirmed. And firm he soon became. Then being the ringmaster, she opened her mouth and incinerated him -- as only dragons can….
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 1:53 PM UTC
here comes the fishhead singing
here comes the baked potato in drag
here comes nothing to do all day long
here comes another night of no sleep
here comes the phone wringing the wrong tone
here comes a termite with a banjo
here comes a flagpole with blank eyes
here comes a a cat and a dog wearing nylons
here comes a machine gun saying
here comes bacon burning in the pan
here comes a voice saying something dull
here comes a newspaper stuffed with small red birds
with flat brown beaks
here comes a **** carrying a torch
a grenade
a deathly love
here comes a victory carrying
one bucket of blood
and stumbling over the berry bush
and the sheets hang out the windows
and the bombers head east west north south
get lost
get tossed like salad
as all the fish in the sea line up and form
one line
one long line
one very long thin line
the longest line you could ever imagine
and we get lost
walking past purple mountains
we walk lost
bare at last like the knife
having given
having spit it out like an unexpected olive seed
as the girl at the call service
screams over the phone:
"don't call back! you sound like a ****
5k
Leather mini, high heels, pretty bracelets, earring-wheels,
Make-up perfect, smooth, right, -pins in nylons, *** tight,
Little purse, toe rings, pearl necklace -flashing bling,
Baby I’m a hot-thing,
Friday night –dating,
Take me out, -treat me right,
Take me home/bang all night!
Baby I’m a hot-thing,
Friday night –dating,
Dance and twirl stilettos, 'uptown-out-the-ghetto,'
Hours preparation, for **** hot sensation,
Grip my hips, grab my side, rub my *** pull me tight,
Baby I’m a hot-thing,
Friday night –club-bing,
Take me out, -treat me right,
Take me home/bang all night!
Baby it’s a sex-thing,
Friday night –dating,
Take me to the bathroom; treat it like a throne-room,
On my knees in nylons; tiles hard I slide on,
You give it up, take a blow,
we come out, no one knows,
Baby I’m a hot-thing,
Friday night –dating,
Take me out, -treat me right,
Take me home/bang all night!
Baby I’m a hot-thing,
Friday night –dating,
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 5:27 PM UTC
He smells like redbull and cigarettes.
He’s a quaint New England cottage
On a Paris street corner -
Crude smoke licking at the window panes
And cheap nylons stretched
Across bright stucco.
He’s the reason for a nice pair of underwear.
Sing oh muse!
Of the heavy-hearted
And her quest for elbow patches
And tortoise shell glasses.
A cloud of confusion from a whiff of cologne -
These are the moments when the crossroads
Is as plain as freckles
Or lipstick on a wine glass.
Propelled forward on roller skates
Called desire.
And white teeth gnawing on broken lips,
And we let desire swell and rattle around inside -
Until we will never be rid of the bruises.
Brick and clouds and red lace and muddy laces
And bruises.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 9:46 PM UTC
I never leave the West when it isn’t raining,
My brother says to me through the phone.
He is on his way back
over the Rockies and through Nebraska.
He’ll never make it intact—
hands fuse to the steering wheel
like nylons on a burn victim,
knees and elbows bolted in
precise angles keeping the car straight,
tires pulling everything forward.
One foot is the pedal, one becomes the floor mat.
Shoulder to armpit with a semi truck
hauling jet wings from Denver,
he notices the paths of rivets
like bread lines in Omaha.
Some of them are starving.
But where is the rest, the airplane body
without its wings? A hollow silo,
pilot in a cockpit
not going anywhere.
I think airplanes molt this time of year.
It’s still raining or it will be,
the white-lined highways
will carry you here unscathed.
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 12:05 PM UTC
Pardon me while I wipe this ******
spit out of my mouth.
Speak and write improperly
Bathe in holy water to wash
away the sins off my body
less charming and loving
then you would expect
it might not had been what it was
but it left a bad taste on my tongue. like taking five shots of whiskey
and licking your ashtray
I tried to stray far beyond
your ripped and shady nylons
the bloodletting on your stained sheets
where I will never sleep
try not to **** me on the way home
I should have stayed where I belong
the dark pool room
the underbelly of a red light saloon
I get paid again next Friday
not that im going to give you any
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
ruin my beautiful morning from
nine till 10 am. spare yourself refusal from
five till seven
thick thighs emotional charged
I have hard boiled eggs
a dog snoring on the floor
a pain in my neck
and my arms and ankles, their nerves are jumping towards the door
heat is up to high IM sweating
like you the *****
Bukowski wrote a song
it is scratching, the needle
typewriter with a loud roar
I cant recall the wine
but the short cigarettes were brown
eyes squinting
I listened like a boy to him, and you
you and your drunk salutes and slurs
commanding a performance from my soul
as if you were Sylvia
such a stupendous, gracious love story
IM haunted by your stare
I do not even think you are here
after all you are a ..... no,
there is really no time for this
the whiskey on my lips you adore
IM sick against a wall and
people are statues above spitting
their teeth below
statues on a wall urinating below
my angst kisses you all farewell
may my spirit fly today
pain grows in the dark
all ye gather,elephants in the room and hall
i hunker down under the blue glow
of the evening news
hiding from both of you
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 8:12 PM UTC
I'm a sucker for nylons
And cherry red lipstick.
She wears them,
and it sends me reeling.
She doesn't know how I love her still.
She smells like the Chanel I gave her.
But she left me out here in the cold,
a million miles from our home.
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 8:01 PM UTC
In the morning,
she’d go to her sewing room again,
half-dressed
in a full slip, nylons, and black pumps.
Over her arm, she carried whatever dress or suit
she would wear to work that day.
She spread out the clothing on the ironing board,
sprayed it with fabric sizer--never starch--
and pressed
each seam and dart
and in and around buttons, cuffs, and collar,
placing the tailor’s ham here and there
when necessary.
In other houses,
mothers still in cotton bathrobes
made breakfast, packed lunches, and set out clothes
for children and husbands.
Those children and husbands
never saw what I did:
A woman up early,
ironing with steam and sizer,
one of several outfits she had made herself,
while holed up at the sewing machine
so that when a husband
came home drunk again
she could excuse herself from their bed
--to finish cutting out a new pattern or
to sew every last button hole of a blouse—
until he passed out.
Again.
Jun 8, 2010
Jun 8, 2010 at 6:03 PM UTC
Everyone wants to just stick it in the hole,
And pound the pin in,
Ask them to tie some nylons with their hands,
And they're all pinkies.
Kids these days,
Can't even play an F chord,
Three string chords
And verse chorus verse,
It gets worse every year.
Thank the lord above, that guitar geeks are born periodically,
To make that thing neigh, like a Bad Horsie,
And prove, a three piece garage band can still rock the block.
For every one hundred and fifty parttime power chord players, hiding their lack of practice behind digital effects,
And excessive distortion,
There's one Jimmy Hendrix or Dimebag Darrel born.
I see the brows furrowing now,
As you wonder, how does this geezer know about Dimebag?
Just because I prefer the feel and vibration, of a classical guitar in my arms,
Doesn't mean I don't Listen to Sabbath,
and I was a Dime bag fan in the seventies.
Power chords are fine by me,
It makes my tutoring sessions, much easier,
I don't even bother trying to convince them that there are more chords,
Unless, they have that thing about them.
That little floating sign that says
"You are special",
Or the eight year old,
Who mysteriously has thick callouses on his fingers,
Even though he never picked up a guitar before.
What I'm trying to say is,
There is nothing wrong with the kids these days.
I hated learning my scales too.
Rock and roll is here to stay,
As long as the next Hendrix isn't
Aborted.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 7:08 AM UTC
It came around again
for we are at the center
of our everything.
And the center never
moves.
From between jagged
ancient mountain tops
it's appearance came to be.
Made its way
across a deadly
California desert.
Over a mysterious,
***** blondes bare
freckled shoulder.
Through the track homes
and the cheap motels.
Between a beautiful ******
open legs and runny nylons.
Past the clerk asleep in the hotel lobby.
Past the stolen car
outside.
Across the cluttered
room and
across a dark alley way
Up the main street
of some nowhere type of town.
Across the freeway and the blood stain.
Past the curbside motive candles.
Above the glass like surface
of the morning dead calm sea.
Through the fisherman's hopeful heart.
And the starlets dying flame.
Over the pages of my
favorite book,
my favorite line.
"Run to me, Come to me'
Through my
half empty ***** bottle
then bounced its way off the cracked
goodluck mirror and caught
me straight in
the eye.
Another day had arrived
and with it
the blinding ray.
The first sign
that you've made it
to waste another beautiful
Southern California
day.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
not a hurried act,
but a bloodied one,
nonetheless...
yes,
the residuals
are two bodies,
for the price of one(!),
that once, twice
exhumed,
give off
no trace of human
fume
what you don't know can't hurt you...
what?
that is a summary of the case;
the motive, the weapon, and
the scene of the crime, all the sane
the raison d'être...or not to be...
that is the
question,
and the answer..
the why, the how
passion was murdered,
ease on down, each other...
daily,
they ****** each other
to the death,
on crosses,
side by side,
like a semi-detached house,
with holes aplenty bleeding into
each other, their only
diminished capacity attachment
you still don't get it? ****
look at your parent's marriage
now you get it?
a twenty year, slow bloodletting
each day a drop dripped from
a nail hole just a millimeter inserted deeper
passion is a slow dying
thing,
that two do
to each other
a sanguine sang-froid slow motion
killing,
that stretches out over the years
like black nylons used as a ski mask
pretty, and ugly and
disguising
and disgusting
and all at once,
a dissipation
a dissolving
a double homicide
by languid immolation
**a crucification of a fiction,
a crucifixion of passion**
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
we don’t need
to be fixed.
we need to be
aware. open. owning it.
embracing
our pain, our history
our patterns, our spasms.
confession:
I've been fantasizing…
that one day you'd roll up,
like Richard Pryor at the end of Moving,
sitting atop a semi-truck of your whatnots,
war paint smeared upon your dashing,
wearing a tie bandana and bullet sash,
carrying a semi-automatic weapon,
after stalking your **** cross-country,
to the front of our gutted dream house,
after this misadventure, arriving, finally,
at home imperfect, thankful just to be,
there with delirious, Cheshire cat grin,
like a lion dragging in a carcass,
bloodied, brave and proud,
eager to greet my eyes and say:
*Honey! Look what I found!
I found my ****
I brought my **** home...
This is my ****
and I would greet you,
with water-colored greys
inking down my dimpled peach,
in a black and white gingham apron,
heels, nylons and corseted vintage dress,
mirroring that ********* right back,
tray of warm hash brownies in hand,
that got nothing on my toasty sweet
lips dripping to say:
*Your **** is lovely, darling.
It'll go perfect with mine!
It's up in the attic - properly labeled,
arranged and categorized.*
and with that kind of
ownership, acceptance and bravery,
there is no way our stuff will ever be
more powerful than us, together,
merged and emerging,
by way of wings, soaring,
above our shit-spattered clouds.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 2:07 PM UTC
I lean toward the light
but am rather fluent
in the tongue of night
a full house lies
beneath corseted wings
slipped in ripped nylons
upper thigh clings
deal me yours -
iron fangs, claws, force
scrawl impassioned pains
branding your name
primal submitting
heart catharsis
although
you probably
should know
I can play
crowmistress
as good (or better)
than possessedkitten
if you push me
too far
my core
is prism pure
but I can make you
question that
hard
Apr 28, 2017
Apr 28, 2017 at 1:24 AM UTC
Fire in her eyes love in her thighs as the cougar seeks her quarry
His clothes to be ripped his face to be kissed his body to devour
A younger flesh to be her next to feast and writhe upon
Oh she's complete with heels on her feet and nylons just for him
Oh why oh why did she not meet the focus of all her desire
Well you where in college while he was in shorts with a soother shoved in his mush
But now he's a man with a mind of his own and a mission to seek what he wants
Others may weep as they slip between sheets but love has no age size or creed
So mark my words well we're all off to hell and I hope with the person we love
As old as we get or as much as we try you can only be who you are
So sleep with the love whomever they are and wake in their warm embrace
For life is to short to tary with age and miss the one made for you.
I know as I missed and no longer resist and hope that you do too
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 6:46 PM UTC
we stayed inside that night
swishing cold drinks around with our tongues
letting it drown out the ringing we heard
and stop the sweat gathering between
our fingers
and you grabbed me playfullly
while i was sitting in the blue chair
i hope you remember
that
i stared at myself in the bathroom afterwards
later that night
standing there reciting bukowski
to my swollen eyes and
broken jaw
my lipstick was blending in with my
flushed cheeks
and i remember
you were going to kiss it entirely
off of me in one sitting
and i swear i was going to let you
until i started thinking about
my nylons ripping and my shyness
unmasking itself as some mental illness
and that stranger walking in and shouting
telling you there is a mountain to be climbing
and a song to be written and
a friend to be helping and you’re
trying with this girl?
she’s terrified of birds
just cause they have the capability
to do what she cannot
flee—
she wants yellow
but it’s dark green
needs pills to be civil
and wine to be social
she wants nights
not days
she just wants the rain
she wants the rain
the rain
and the rain
every single day
and you and i both know
we have no control
over the sun
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 8:10 PM UTC
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm ⚠
______________________________________________________________
In memory of
him?
her?
I do not know.
______________________________________________________________
In the hushed moments
before sleep,
you summon the
loveliest memories of him--
memories now
resigned to heartache and destitution,
to some far off, phantasmic realm
(wherever that may be);
you come to school ill
one winter's morning,
flesh cadaverous,
pale cheeks embellished
by bloodshot eyes
wreathed in dark circles.
He rests his hand atop
your forehead affectionately,
his eyes shaded with concern
as he comes to the realization that
"You're burning up."
(But, eventually, his affections
begin to ebb away,
and with them, so does your fire--
the stuff of magic);
Mouth frothing with rage,
you haul off and
punch the living ****
out of a bathroom stall.
This escapade of fury
leaves your left hand
inflamed
bruised
splintered.
When you tell him
what you've done,
he meets you outside
of the girl's washroom
and takes your hand in his,
runs his fingers over the
inflammation
bruises
splinters
softly and asks you,
"Does it hurt?"
(These days, it hurts everywhere--
and all for him, darling);
He pulls you--
fretful and teary-eyed--
to his chest,
his palm cradling
the back of your neck.
For a moment
you forget about
the cuts on your thighs;
the blood seeping
from your nylons;
the sorrow gnawing
at your bones.
For a moment,
you can't help but wonder
if this boy
is to be your
Gideon--
your Holy Grail.
(And, to think,
one abrupt gesticulation
of his wrist
and your neck snaps--
and you're a goner).
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 2:26 PM UTC
When did girls start becoming so self-conscious of their looks?
When did the focus shift from baby dolls and fairytales to makeup and skipping dinner?
One day we are pretending to be moms, the next day we are taking measures that could ruin our chances of being that
Scraped knees and muddy feet turn into nylons and stilettos
Girls slowly come to the realization that they must become the objects pleasing to the eyes of men if they want to get far in life
Beauty becomes a job and we put in our hours day in and day out
Our only payment becomes the compliments, the catcalls, and the brief feeling of acceptance
These are only temporary and it isn’t long before we begin to feel withdrawals of our need for acceptance
We push harder for the attention of others, but we can never measure up to that prettier girl next to us
Scrolling the Internet for remedies to make our not so soft skin softer, trying to buy the newest eyeliner to make our not so big eyes bigger, sticking our fingers down our throats to make our not so skinny waist skinnier
When will this madness end?
No matter how hard we try we can never reach perfection, someone will always seem better in our eyes
But then comes the ridicule for being “fake”
You can’t wear makeup anymore, it’s false advertising!
But when you don’t you are ridiculed for how imperfect your skin is, how small your eyes are, and how thin your lips look
Girls are made fun of for being too fat, and they are made fun of for being too skinny
Insults ranging from “Hey fatso!” to “Oh my gosh! She must have a eating disorder”
Girls get thrown into this circus, forced to walk the tightrope while the crowd shouts and throws their opinions in hopes of knocking someone off
“Come one, come all! Lets see how far she gets before she falls!”
No matter which way you go someone will root for you to fail
The little girl who dreamed of being a princess now dreams to be let out of this hell she has been put in
And one day, our daughters will have to face the same things…
Unless we fight for them
It’s time to take care of each other
A single compliment, a smile can go a long way
One day my little girl will look at me and ask
“How can I be beautiful?”
And I will answer
*“My darling, beauty isn’t defined by looks, beauty by looks is fleeting, you will be beautiful by how you find the beauty in others, you will be beautiful in the way you are respectful to those superior to you, you will be beautiful for your love for the hurting, and you will be beautiful because my darling,
God made you beautiful in your own way,
From the Inside Out”*
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
i’ve been losing sleep lately plagued by dreams of strong arms tightly wound around my ribcage like kudzu and an overwhelming scent of musk and dried paint that lingers like a heavy shadow in the breaking of morning light. i stumble through the routines ripping my nylons and bruising my hands along the way. all i can think about are the mistakes and lies i’ve scattered across all that i once held dear to me and how i’ve burned every ******* bridge i ever built in the gold light of vulnerable youth. i don’t know what i want anymore and every man i’ve ever loved ultimately never adds up to the man i imagine them to be. i fill in the empty nooks and black holes within yourself you don’t even know you have and i build you into the man you never have any chance of becoming and it’s just downhill from there, babe. i’ve got my back up against a wall with my spine so firmly pressed into the surface i wonder how hard it would be to just simply fall through and disappear entirely. i look into the eyes of hundreds of strangers everyday knowing i will never see them again and all i can think is how in god’s name are people ever able to find each other?
15 june, 2012
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 12:14 AM UTC
I have an unusual friend. A small man with charms of a gentle redneck. He holds court in his garage for his acquaintances, those free or at large. His demeanour is rustic, but his wisdom self-taught. His name is Byron ( I know, it's too good to be true), not lordly, but Byron likes the girls and light brew. Byron says, “I'll kick your *** every time we play golf. Not yet. His voice is chasmic and often influenced by distractions. And then on a cold, witch-tit, heathcliffe driving winter's day, with the wood stove well-fired, a rascally friend opens the door, and Byron yells, “Shut the door. Do you think wood grows on trees.” On leaving the same day he advises me, “Don't slip on the ice. It's frozen.” I didn't tell you Byron has one eye. Better yet, a patch on the other. He looks more like post Frodo ignoring the “Don't run with scissors" warning from Mother Baggins, than he does Lord B. I dropped my pipe once on his garage floor. A special pipe. It's my bowling pipe. I don't smoke tobacco. Byron thinks it clever to call me at work and tell my secretary he and I are bowling after school. Byron mixes metaphors. So, my pipe has dropped. Byron says, “ Let me help. Three eyes are better than two.” His cleverness can backfire. I tried to be sensitive, but there was neither an honourable or dishonourable way out. Byron hung an oak wood sign near his stove. He makes his own stain, and rubs it evenly in circles with his wife's old nylons. “It's great for the *********** he'll quip. The two ***** of the sign are joined with leather straps and stainless steel studded to the wood. The letters painted within the stencilled lines are a dark, rich mixture. The joke. “Lift flap in case of fire.” Normally one lifts the flap. “Not now stupit. In case of fire.” I discreetly pointed out the t.The sign quietly disappeared and was never mentioned again. He'll never kick my ***
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
Shy inquisitive always sincere.
Experienced cold simply a thrill.
Old fashioned In nylons twice his years.
The things she did are not for here!
Years later her daughter too, not his best move.
Then sat watching the stars and the waves come in.
Like slippers worn time and again, on and off, when both near.
A quickie snatched on a canal bank, a crazy mistake but nice at the time.
Baby oil frenzied and really quite mad.
Then came the one who broke his heart.
Then back to slippers that still didn't fit.
Then many years with the last he believed.
Then back in the market past his used date
A much younger lover then came to his door, it wasn't what either was looking for.
Many options, none he desired simply no trust, empty inside.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
i feel like i never
left or maybe just
spaced out for six
months but this
place still feels like
home, the cold still
chills me to the bone
but i wear nylons and
stretch numb fingers
smile at the people i
will always care for.
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 4:06 PM UTC
Peep show girl, bedroom goddess, ***** ***** gem
Stripped of nylons and grayed tweeds
Her hair wet from the hot, steamy shower
She smells of Sand and Sable and sweet strawberry conditioner
Her plump **** and full, swinging ******* the towel hits the floor
He likes her like this, soft and curvy, still damp
How she moves holds his attention, her lovely female power
Laughter bubbles in her throat, her eyes inviting him
Without hesitation he's seduced by the absence of words
He kisses her neck, just below the ear, he feels her softly sigh
Closer they move, closing the space, his body stretched & flushed
Hands in her hair, her scent mixing with his, he flows toward her
What she isn't; slim and angled, so satisfies him he revels in her
Her lushness stimulates him beyond the physical, heightens him
Here it is warm-here she is free-here she believes she is beautiful
They part, she glows and he smiles, she's still damp but from him
She tucks herself lazily into his side, he likes her like this too
Simple, lovely in sleep's repose...she is his, all of her, all of her
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 1:06 PM UTC
It came around again
for we are at the center
of our everything.
And the center never
moves.
It burns through natural clouds
and unnatural lines in our sky.
Over the Eastern mountains
and scorched hillsides.
Made its way
across a deadly
California desert.
Over a mysterious ,
***** blondes bare
freckled shoulder.
Through the track homes
and the cheap motels.
Between a beautiful ******
open legs and runny nylons.
Past the clerk asleep in the hotel lobby.
Past the stolen car
outside.
Across the cluttered
room and
passed a dark alley way.
Up the main street
of some nowhere type of town.
Across the freeway and the blood stain.
Past the curbside motive candles.
Above the glass like surface
of the morning ,dead calm sea.
Through the fisherman's hopeful heart.
And the starlets dying flame.
Over the pages of my
favorite book ,
my favorite line.
"Run to me,Come to me'
Through my
half empty ***** bottle.
Bounced its way off the cracked
goodluck mirror and caught
me straight in the eye.
That first blinding ray
shines its way through the ages
to great you each and every morning .
The first sign
that you've made it.
Still healthy enough to
gracefully waste another beautiful
Southern California day.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 4:54 PM UTC