"pantyhose" poems
*all my life i held a dream
of a woman i would love
of course
she would be alluring
supple
a charming countenance
erudite, with an angelic face
her body
a muscular stretching willow
arching her legs over head
kissing her own
curving soft feet
a graceful contortionist
in confetti colored sparkle pantyhose
stretching towards me
silken hair draping a perfect symmetry
with spun sugar kisses
wafting the scent of vanilla
and candied vaporous breath
lips like cherry lozenges
but
one never knows ones destiny
i met her
my girl destiny
and except for a faint look of languor and ruin
with a tinge of withering
she was without doubt unbearably titillating
with razor-thin blackened lips
mascara slits for eyes
hair pulled straight back
jet black
jelled like hardened licorice
with satanic blood rivulets
and pitch fork tattooed ****
a vice of lechery
a malefaction of moral turpitude
her *** scarred from orgiastic beatings
her **** became
like a large wrinkly mouth
resembling the face of a bullfrog
from pleasuring herself with
tableware cutlery
her soul
a broken creel
suffering bouts of anxiety
like a weeping moon
having been institutionalized
in Mother Marys Hell House
from a ghastly bout of parricide
her father,
a hobbling gloomish troll
while the dark veins of mother
ran through her soul
leaving little choice
but to dispatch
the parents
abandoning their corpses in the kitchen
like strewn litter
turned out
just my
kinda
girl
d
e
s
t
i
n
y
May 14, 2017
May 14, 2017 at 9:14 AM UTC
fishnet pantyhose
mexican dinners
men with a big noses
competing, being the winner
women scented like roses
words of praise
cats
getting a yearly raise in pay
the sound outside my window and knowing it's bats
calling in sick to work, and spending the day at play
seeing stupidity and smiling
the laughing of my nieces
writing a good poem without trying
hug by my fiance and falling to pieces
May 25, 2010
May 25, 2010 at 10:49 PM UTC
Abigail slides the glass door shut.
As beads of water percolate off her body
and land on the faux stone tile,
the smell of chlorine from her swim
and the smell of coffee from my brewing *** blend.
My uncle, Abigail's father, and my mother
are seated at the sticky, spilt soda kitchen table beside me.
"Go get ready for dinner," my mother's brother says, sending
Abigail's bikini'd frame through doorway and around the bend.
The brew idles, and I'm all porcelain and sugar substitute for a moment,
then back by my uncle and mother.
"Abigail has gotten so thin," my mother says.
"Is she eating?" my mother asks.
"I know it's tough for girls her age. When they're looking to marry," my mother says.
I want to bash the smoking cup into her face.
My uncle says she's been training for a marathon.
My neurons get tidy and taper off.
So, it's out of the kitchen and into an empty living room
to park my *** on an empty piano bench.
I set the coffee on top, and press eight of my fingers down
on black keys.
I hear toes-to-heels, toes-to-heels.
I gaze over my shoulder.
Now, Abigail's in a black, black dress. Mid-thigh.
In her left hand,
red fuck-me-shoes with a heel that could turn a curious man blind;
in her right hand,
black pantyhose and cherry lipgloss.
"You should have swam," Abigail delivers with hushed precision,
like she'd been reciting the line throughout the duration of her swim.
Abigail has long brunette hair,
and it's sticking to her neck.
Deep permanent dimples frame her lips.
She's a nurse in Waco.
Each time I see her, I think about
Bukowski's 103-pound "Texan".
It makes me rash, violent, a heady monstrosity,
and trembling sick.
"I forgot my trunks."
"That's no excuse."
I would respond, but she's sliding the hose up her leg.
In the living room.
While my uncle talks a second mortgage around the bend.
Her right leg crosses her left,
an overpass and an interstate.
My forehead overheats in a flash,
and I feel like she's staring back at me.
When my leering eyes shift from
her toes to her eyes, the pupils beckon:
"All roads lead to me."
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 12:48 AM UTC
A quiet life
A country life
Where the grass sways in the breeze
And the hues of green signify the beginning of balmy nights
A far cry from the city
Gone are the endless vibrant lights
Gone are the 2 a.m. trips across town just because they make the best doughnuts
In this place of air almost too clean to breathe
They stroll
A traffic jam is four cars at a stop sign
Battling rules of the road with polite hat tips of "you go first"
Fast feet and hot dog carts
Italian ices on every corner
Fifty-six blocks to a destination
A world of choices
A billion footprints at a time
Stoplight crowds of sneakers and pantyhose
Everyone is invisible and naked at once
The green haired freak and the business man
The limos and the gypsy cabs
The excitement only felt in a world of possibilities
The difference between pick up trucks and bike messengers
A hundred miles for supplies
Or fifty-six blocks of everything under the sun
Soot filled pores and too much traffic
Street sounds to sleep by and a world of opportunities
Crickets and junebugs
The world closes at eight
Nightlife turns into Wal-Mart and Taco Bell
The slow pace of growing grass
The warmth of a winterless Summer
Wishing for a trip across town at 2 a.m. just because they make the best doughnuts
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 10:53 AM UTC
Volume up,lights out
Tolerance up just to drown him out
Everyone's dancing in circles
She's stuck in the perverse perimeter,so no one sees her around .
Hopped off on circles & hallow cylinders just to survive when shes around
She used to come alive in the moon light
When the high beams shined she used to see the light .
Now she's struggling w strategies to leave .
Trying to find an amusing excuse to satisfy their surprise
Something like :
"I'm a vampire I need to get home before the sun rises "
Pass her a lighter , So she could add
fuel to the fire ;makes for better burn holes in her pantyhose
Chain link boots ,skin tight leather coat
Mustang Sally , make tonight your own..
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 2:44 PM UTC
I wanna marry a chav
that looks just like
Britney Spears,
now, not ten years ago---
Barefoot & pregnant in yoga pants,
Barefoot mother slipping
into black stockings---
She idolizes her rivals,
Wants to be her own evil-twin---
I wanna marry the **** out of her
& watch her belly grow
in the sundaddy-o---
I want to take her ***
To the ****** Islands---
And watch her beached,
She is the opposite of who she is---
Completely manic up & running
She who stays within reach
Of images drowned
Between an old lady’s thighs---
Mother slips on black pantyhose,
Adjusting the waist over her *******
On Thursdays, sunnyside
every other day
---
Mother 8 months preggers in yoga pants
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 9:58 PM UTC
The esophageal chill of fresh rain paired
with Bozek's tire stove undertones
slipped through the chain link tennis court.
Love all, love-fifteen, love-thirty, love-forty, game.
I love you, service box Suns, fault one fault lines,
Grandma's crochet centerpiece. Cornucopia coping
with *deuce, add. in, deuce, add. out, deuce,
you get it.* Lost ***** in the transformer pen beside
the playground where I watched my classmates
fall off the monkey bars and expose themselves daily.
Racket strings like pantyhose girls surrounding
the sink applying lipstick and stabbing each other dead.
They don't need monkey bars to show off.
Slice serve pizza at Pudgies to kids barely making it.
Grades lower than the pepperoni from the seedy
gas station they sit in and thumb-spike quarters
into each other's knuckles. The "grown-ups"
buy instant lottery and feverishly **** the tickets
with misplaced pennies, and then toss the moneywastes
when they score a free ticket. Free ticket to what?
The tennis match in Addison so far away?
A clear view through chain link?
A wet, elm bench some kid made in shop class?
An alternative to what we waste our lives on?
****** marijuana, drinking at the basketball court, and
flicking cigarette filters into Berger Lake like we're hot ****
We are **** not the ****
Just ****
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 11:59 AM UTC
Labor Day still three weekends away,
Why play gravedigger so prematurely?
Do not the long legged teen girls yet parade,
In halter tops and shortest of jeans cutoff?
Bare shoulders, tans, caramel cream, short and
tight,
The dresses and the contents, and your chest too,
right?
True, but the thermometer barely brushes 75,
That evening coolness, not yet a chill, now ever-present.
Soon the acorns in August will appear, but for sure,
I know that summer's end knells loud and clear,
Because tonight, the ladies wore pantyhose.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
i recall
with a fondness
blurred by years
the town of
my formative years
in the mountains
the heart of the table lands
dissected by a highway
it crouched, along the sides
of a shallow valley
i remember a greeness
that came from the trees
eucalypt and pine
most prominent
in my mind
and the grass that grew
lush and tall
only to be mown
each Saturday morn
i remember
churches and schools
the wide expasnses
of playing fields
and parks with
hurdygurdys and swings
i remember the pool,
that too turquoise
rectangle,
that glistened
with wet invitation
and on the highest peak
the stolid grey water tower
lording it over all
i remember rough tarmac
under my feet, running from
light pool to light pool at dusk
and frost on picket fences
in early mornings,
like delicate sugar candy
solidier braving the early sun
our house, small on a large block
with hydrangea at the front
wisteria overtaking the fenceline
an at the back door a concrete slab
painted fire engine red,
but faded to overipe watermlon pink
poplar trees garding the back
and the smell of onions
burning on the grill
hill's hoist with tennis ball
and pantyhose
standing to silent attention
and in the forground
my brothers and clans
playing football, league
with passion and
burgeoning skill
all this comes to mind
on a cold winter's day
i may of come a long way
but my heart still
ties me to there
and the memories
make the knots
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 9:05 AM UTC
If she is hungry
Then we'll let her starve
For longing
Is a beautiful expression
On the face of a pretty, young girl.
If she is cold
We'll wrap her in white
Over her paper-doll arms
Dancing-girl legs
Porcelain-baby face.
We'll spare her from mummification
By peeling away those first layers
Just to reveal more white, adorned underneath
Pure as ****** snow.
We'll never speak
Of those dark shadows
Over smooth, breakable skin, so fair
For we shall make a gentleman wonder
If she wears proudly her shadows
If she has on her pantyhose.
If she becomes yours
We'll show everyone
If only for a moment
Just what a prize you have won.
Such a lovely, hungry, pure, feminine face
Beneath that age-old veil.
But don't you worry, son!
As soon as you taste those wanting, red lips
You can lower that veil as you wish
Decide the form she shall take
As one who is yours
To feed, clothe, flaunt, hide
However you please.
But until then...
If she is hungry
We'll let her starve
Just to make her wait.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 11:45 PM UTC
There's horns and heartache in every direction a ***** smile in the sirens that echo through the alleys bricked or stuccod into self martyrd silence at a world that is only a glossy poster of its former self an hour glass up everybodys nose some torn pantyhose hope I'm smiling in my 4x4 a beam watching the people turnstyle through despair and ecstasy I'm painted white but I'm full of termites and I love this mirage world despite all the anyways and brick roads that lead to cliffs and cliffs that lead to lovers and lovers that leave for sunrise and railroad ties me unholy headed in every direction that leads to nowhere everywhere but like I said I love this mirage
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 6:37 PM UTC
the transparency of
running water
over stone
is too much
for me to bear
i dropped my identity
into the water
and let it become
a stone
and as the mud
and ash and dirt
washed away
i saw far too clearly
what i had neglected
and the cracks
in sincerity
and i bound
my heart
and ribs
and tongue
in a tight pair of pantyhose
but it stopped my breath
and made me ache
in a way
i never knew
was possible
when i
got my breath back
i cried
with the realization
that
i should have never
started again
if i wanted
to be perfect
so i stepped
on the wildflowers
of renewal,
buttoned up my collar,
and slept in the rain
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 10:03 AM UTC
******* his baby's toes & no one knows
how he gets off w/ the kernel-size toes
between his teeth & on his tongue; don't
get weird, he's the best father ever; they
share a secret language the baby understands as laughter;
daddy's girl grows up under his watchful
eyes as her feet expand from toddler Maryjanes
to small running sneaks to prim Easter pumps &
he sniffs the worn shoes remembering when
she was getting changed & her foot in her
mouth looked so tasty, she knew why he
wanted to **** them too, sharing the little
foot w/ her & come prom, she's trying on her
first stilettos & dad is lending a helping hand
******* each toe & licking the soles so they
slide right in, but before her date arrives
& dad puts the shoes on her feet one last time
he ***** her stocking toes for over an hour in
the privacy of her room & she has to change
her pantyhose cause dad tore them w/ his teeth
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 1:29 PM UTC
The Smile worth more than a million words
The Eyes that seem to recite this verse
The Ears that hear no more disrespect
The Nose that crinkles like fresh pantyhose
She's no Mona Lisa, no Marilyn Monroe
She's not Farrah Fawcet, don't need golden globes
She's all I'll ever ask for, and oh so much more
She something spectacular, A daughter of God
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 9:38 PM UTC
rag tag *** hag grocery bag in drag
maxed credit and bragging about having a stag party
farty party girls in shart coated pantyhose blow wasted kisses
to fisters in trousers bumping mump victims blisters
hitting wristers like the Williams sisters
coyote trickster with a brand new mix tape waits
with his **** taped to his own leg like Ricky Lake
on her fist date
another Cosby **** escape hot-plated shared space
I’m no racist cause my skin is white and pasty
I’m tasty and **** like Britney sans the braces insatiable
and my testicles are reckless needing spectacles
done wrecked the hull Captain Pickard
and a test-tube girl –
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 5:30 PM UTC
Sitting on the bus
my Israeli Paul Revere seminary nightmare steps on
armed in pantyhose, eyes stretched
wide by a thick black headband
Dense Brooklyn accent, perfect Hebrew.
Laughing on the phone, she
tells the details of the most recent terrorist attack,
a family of five murdered in their home,
a baby stabbed in its cradle
She said she’s just come from the memorial in Jerusalem,
where hundreds of Israelis stood in the streets sobbing and
screaming for vengeance
A sea of black hats, writhing and angry
She said they showed everyone
pictures of the bodies,
so they would know the horror of what happened
And as she sat there smiling, broadcasting the news like
a recount of a primetime television episode,
I sat
on the verge of tears
and watched the rest of the bus sit stony-faced,
distracted and desensitized.
We drive through
a market place.
An
old woman gets on clutching
a challah swaddled in plastic, sleeping salty.
(The bus is full off babies,
but none of them are crying.)
Meanwhile, in Gaza
the murders had another crowd
of people filling the streets,
dancing.
Jun 12, 2011
Jun 12, 2011 at 6:57 AM UTC
On the first day, we are all just hydrogen and time. Filling these hands—
this one mirror angle, one small wrist. One afternoon’s picked-over bones.
The second day, I spun ten times. On the grass, sky turning
its cosmic ballet. The axis of the world, there in the front yard.
On the third day, a hangman’s rope of pantyhose. Easy choices
like stop, and get a ****** or don’t stop, and get a family.
On the fourth day, tick-a-tick-a-ticking. Since I learned
to tell time, cradling has been inescapable and immanent.
The fifth day, I wanted an ovipositor that would glide
and bed, know it’s way around a dark brood pouch.
Day six, caught stealing ancient definitions, stuffing my pockets
and shoes. I’m told zülf is the wisp of hair falling over my eyebrow.
On the seventh day, I shelved myself and gave back one rib, honey
spines of snakes. What tiny handprints they’d leave if they had hands.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 3:46 PM UTC
Silk, satin, velvet and lace
Bloomers aghast from raunchy strutting
Down the streets of London
1840
Men would drink arsenic
To be under your thrall
Asphyxiating themselves to be with you
The Colonels daughter
Out at night
Footsteps like raindrops you ditched your pantyhose
For delicious drips on your toes
Your fangs catching the light of the lunar eclipse on full
The hunt is on
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
Nights under stars
Sand between toes
Drive-in movie cars
Freshly fallen snow
Raggedy dresses
Waterfall rainbows
Socotra trees
Ripped pantyhose
Unmatched socks
Leaves in transition
Innocence and sunflowers
Lighthouses and words written
Familiar kitchen patterns
In a stranger’s house
New Orleans architecture
A cemetery mouse
Flip-flops in winter
Zebras and block parties
Cinnamon and cloves
Whiskey and Bacardi
Candy in pillow cases
Static electricity in the dark
Barun Valley and painted faces
Houses made from tree bark
Wrap-around porches
Neon city lights
Lightning-bug torches
Thunderstorm nights
Epicurean summers
Lapis Lazuli skies
Youth prayers in rocking chairs
Heterochromatic eyes
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 8:37 AM UTC
Like an upside-down stage curtain, steam rises
over a half-empty cup of ginger tea,
obscuring the dreary view of yet another rainy day.
The woman leans closer to the window
(she’s certain there’ll be an oily stain where her nose
makes contact with the icy glass).
Raindrops are mutating over cracks in the window,
their shadows filling in the blank
blotches in her eyes, camouflaging the liver spots
(themselves otherworldly mutants)
over her hands— sewerage on plumbers’ gloves.
She drinks her tea and whimpers his name.
Scalpel-blade shivers creep over her back,
over the folds in her pantyhose;
chalk marks on the road become visible—
she remembers it like yesterday
when she cradled his broken body in her arms:
police car and ambulance sirens
conjured a dust devil that reeked of young death;
it clung to her designer clothes,
and complemented the purple stench of brake fluid,
petrol, and the god-awful breaths
of bystanders who’d gathered like a swarm of flies,
the soft susurrus of their conversations
intensifying till pencil-lipped, beast-like groans,
ready to feed on the hole in her soul,
salivating to take a bite of grief, and replace it with remorse;
she recalls the sound of her car keys
on the hot tar, which took a chomp out of her left knee,
and warm blood seeping into her every fibre.
Steam and chalk marks fade away into the past.
In front of the refrigerator,
on the grimy vinyl kitchen flooring, a ginger meows;
the woman ignores its pleas,
and reaches for the upside-down picture on the window sill.
A liver spot sprouts from her neck.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 7:45 PM UTC
Crooked nose,
**** pose.
I want to strip you past your pantyhose,
and prove
how much I love you.
It's extreme:
this feeling you're giving me
like someone's on my team
and I'm on my knees -
begging you not to leave;
screaming, gleaming,
shining, whining,
we're playing this sing song game,
winning,
weaving your words to my innards.
Dancing,
spin her.
glorious spirals and swirls,
you look at the girl
like she's beautiful,
even when your eyes are on her evil.
I am the church,
will you be my steeple?
We can be the pretty people,
better even,
antichrists.
Will you be my wife?
No.
That's little ****
we're bigger even.
Past the dimension of tension;
free to learn the lessons
of each others' teachers.
We can be world leaders
or animal breeders,
silly kissers,
fishermen.
I'm just wishin' you're with me,
every moment is waiting for you
to kiss me.
Even when it's happening,
I'm missing you
'cause I want to live inside your chest cave.
Closer.
Closer.
I'll gladly be your slave.
Slay me.
Take me away.
I want to be the game you play.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 6:39 PM UTC
Down Tempest Lane
I wish they could turn off the search lights.
Smoke and mirrors interloping
back at the Copters
through the blinds,
blades weeping in symphonic sympathy,
before the Pantyhose and Plunge bras peel off,
some of us can get it on for real.
Others' frigid halves
fake it, like blades of grass,
who is the real snake
the appointed shooter or liar ?
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 6:23 PM UTC
You rip me apart
like the ladders in my
stockings
which I try to climb but
never take me
anywhere
other than closer to
you
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 2:26 PM UTC
I like the wasteland
Frees my brain's storage space
In great big nothing
You have so much room to create
Trees and grass and houses
If that's your thing
I rather make up my own world
Listen to the whales sing to me
Through cracks in asphalt
A bubble grows
Snakes do cartwheels
I drink lava through pantyhose
I have no box to fill
No tan lines on my wrist
Wading through the portal's lagoon
Blow my paper swan a kiss
Look upon the rolling ground
It looks like moldy carpet
I hop into my taxi cloud
Get off at Martian market
Place one ear to the ground
I hear my records' rumblin' sound
Contort my body till I'm rubber
Fling myself onto another
Great big nothing
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 8:43 PM UTC
Desiring living matter, flaming jack monster
seized a witch from the floor by the gypsy hair,
winded and abstract; her genius was to know
the girl was stupid enough to know the pony
was the wrong *** by placing to lay knee ****
as a blonde origin give mama, a kiss so give
a sacred enough, noxious movement's pavilion
planet. Before speaking; Wide ghost Each
Among Translate web pages. If you do not need
the blood of the fingers, the fingers of the injury
in the bones can lead to an infinite kiss of light,
a garden of the gardens of fortune snares of the ancient.
the sight of the youth,
the rare ray skin, hath taken hold on yeh,
I caused it to rain,
according to the time of the motion
in the wailing of Skinny Girls before
the wide planet
spoke in front of the giant planet,
is walking, walking,
walking, walking, walking, from the yeah
the eve of the beloved to the stranger,
and art of the bar having brought the boats in;
Barbee goes to the docking in her pantyhose,
maybe fearing simply the dark,
the satellite company's form of the disease,
they thought with sweat that they should be;
I need your grandson.
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 4:03 AM UTC