"pincushion" poems
i like wearing miniskirts and i read marie claire
i like bubblegum pop music and i like to dye my hair
i like rich thick hot pink lipgloss and i like to pretend
i still dress up all the time even though i’m seventeen
and im learning how to defend myself
i pretend my legs are made of silk and i pretend im sleeping beauty
i fake like im a natural blonde and fake like im a cutie
i like having kitten pits and i like kissing girls
i like clothes that show off my **** and i like wearing pearls
i like the way my hair smells of peaches
and i like it even when it reeks of 15 different kinds of bleaches
im a ******** soft girl
im a pincushion queen
a raspberry swirl cheesecake
a pretty little thing with a head full of snakes
deliberately unclean
deliberately obscene
pretty as yesterday’s underwear
pretty as the roots of courtney’s hair
pretty as my favourite les mis scene
when anne hathaway’s fantine dreams a dream
and her nose starts running as she starts to cry
and everything felt real for once in my life
i’m covered in face powder and i’m covered in dirt
and you’ll never know joy if you never know hurt
and that’s why they make disney princess plasters
so when you skin your knees you’ll only feel prettier after
let’s talk about all the junk we like
and re-learn the art of laughter
i’ll be in the kitchen making raspberry tea
whenever you wanna join me
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
The green combusts, the cherry sclerotized mask dances above
the invisible paper carapace.
Stuffed full with Rotten skunk innards and burning,
tongues of heat sweat away its crystalline hairs.
Aren is hunched and crooked, all teeth and lungs,
under the mixed halogens of suburban porchlight,
being bathed in bluescale waves from the
strobe of the neighbor's telescreen.
Ropes of smog pour from the slats between his picket fence ivories and get frayed.
I drink the filth, choking down the viscera of the vermin.
It doesn't seem to get easier.
Stumbling inside, my feet detach and I throw myself on the door
until I've locked out the sickly tide pool light of dawn,
and I'm rolling toward his bedroom.
Jolting and sputtering, and
grasping at the hands of the clock,
listening for the steady metronome to
count me through.
And then numbness.
I know the feeling, and next come the
pins, digging into my
fingertips and the pads of my
toes, and then I'm all body and silent prayers.
And I'm whispering sick thoughts to Aren -
*"Those adrenaline demons
will do me in,
and if only I could relax,
and my dear mother
used to have a stalker,
and I almost got run down
by a car on the highway when I was five,
and asthmatics are five times as likely to have a
generalized anxiety disorder."*
The adrenaline demons gather my tendons in pincushion palms,
tugging at the strings,
panicked arthritis and my fingers are
twitching and curling backwards
while I glare on with shallow breaths and cataracts.
The organs moan in the cavern of my body,
with thick wet air pouring from the opening.
I'm standing now,
a fetishized devil doll,
shaking out the pins
and the needles
and the sick splinters of glass
and the long holy skewers
and I'm breathing again
and I sit and
I breathe.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
I never thought of fragile as an insult until I saw the way you spat it through clenched teeth
"God you're so ******* fragile"
hissing barbed wire insults like they'd cut your tongue if you held them in any longer
before, I thought of fragile as the ultimate compliment
a sign that my concave stomach was home to fingerprint bruises
that you were afraid to hold me too tight lest I break
but then I heard it dripping slow dark molasses off your tongue
coating every syllable with thick syrupy tar
it didn't make sense to me that your voice,
petal soft and pitched for laughter
accustomed to slurring my name on dizzy nicotine breaths and over crackling long distance calls
could wrap its fingers around my lifeline and
crush it
until long after I chose to stop being your answering machine sounding board yes man lap dog
you never cared about my hollow birdlike bones or the blooming violet footsteps beneath my eyes
you said I was too ******* fragile
that my eyes were leaky taps and you had no plumbing experience
that my heart was a pincushion voodoo doll and you didn't know how to protect its satin softness from daily wear and tear
I got hurt too easily and playing tag with someone else's insecurities isn't fun
I never thought of fragile as an insult until you choked it out from behind your own iron voice box
and I realised it wasn't so much an insult as a burden
now there is leather binding forming around my cotton stuffed heart
and I'm doing my best to tighten the valves in my tear ducts
I'm still fragile
But it's not your job to hold me together anymore
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
I feel like God hates me
Or stopped caring
Ceased to provide
Left for good
And now I'm left here to straighten myself out for better or for worse
I've met people who feel the same way
Who surprisingly have the pincushion audacity to put all the blame of their misfortunes in the absence of the omnipotent one
I just feel abandoned they feel betrayed
Maybe he makes a chump change commission on every life he guides to a certain point then leaves them stark naked at the haunting hour
I know all the preachers and secular teachers lie through their teeth
They win the merit-less hoax award by a landslide
They have no consideration of for the people they mislead or the ramifications their poisoned sermons causes
They use emotionally charged language to increase the parish's numbers
They're terrified of God, they live in fear
And see carpal tunnel as a punishment for ************ and wish blindness upon all those who partake
There is shared consensual hiraeth between those who have been through an invasion of privacy and the trespassing of private property
They want their rights and their guns back
They want their personal space
They retreat to their happy place
Let's go back to the Pantheon of lactose intolerant divine idols
Of epileptic godheads
Who's line of work is about incubated pie pans
Can you make a tutorial that summarizes the resounding reduction of options using nothing but euphemisms?
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 4:55 PM UTC
1.
Sweet love
Oh, such sweet love.
2.
Stick into the pincushion of hope
Gentle pins of far-off dreams,
Holding wispy threads of desire
For which time (as a heading) is never enough.
Push down and drown all thought
Which beckon expectation -
And trust to want less.... or nothing;
Thus reduced, we get no fails.
3.
All up to the sky
We cry,
Agonising -
That waiting of footfall.
Then.....
Lovely flow.
Yes, let's dare to increase
Irregular patterns of abdicated pain.
To fulfill what is so held back.
4.
Because of you
Three days can last a lifetime
Full of affection and delicious warmth
Within the bearings of your arms.
5.
Dreams in the coffee whorls
Willing spindles now
Turn as they eddy...like happy tidings
All around my head.
Dreamscapes thrive
In dulcet whirls inside our core.
6.
No shipwrecks here,
No abandoning of esperance.
No deserting,
No dereliction of love.
No grief,
No castaways on hopeless coast.
These proffered crumbs on palm
Become sought-after......and precious gifts.
7.
Sweet love garnered over time
Poured slowly.....into sacred cup.
Where phantoms run to hide away
No abode for wicked despair.
Oh, for lovelorn hearts and broken dreams
To find such gladness in a cup
We hold hope, ever bold....so deep in heart
And sink away in woven bliss.
Capsule of infinity.....
8.
Come, let us drink
From our coffee-cup.....
Of love.
Oh, come......
9.
Time to kneel and give thanks
Place forgiving wafer on tongue.
Take none in haste
Accept only when ready.
To....
Drink sweetness of sky's nectar.
10.
Of pastures plain
And meadow green
Swift do echoes fall
As moments slip away....like clouds.
11.
Oh, and....
One sugar....
(No analogy needed, surely :)
Hot.....
(Nor here!)
And BLACK, please.
S T, 11 April 2013
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
You know nearly nothing of my life
beyond the few whens and hows
that have been told to you
small stories that sit comfortably
in the eye of a needle
plucked from the pincushion
of whole existances
you don't know where I come from-
only the stuffy history book pictures
and anecdotes
that have been outlived
you don't know these people
beyond the stacks of stereotypes
you shuffle us in to
And the culture, my culture-
Our beautiful contradictions
and spectacular calamities -
You believe you understand us
but what you know is so much less
than we ever have been
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 9:38 PM UTC
if you try hard enough you will be able to taste the blood in my lungs
ashtrays bleeding liquor with every breath
don't ******* tell me you've forgotten me don't tell me that i'm worth it don't tell me
exactly what i want to hear
your voice pushes needles into my pincushion conscience,
skinned palms against a chalkboard don't ask me why i never loved you
you're just kidding yourself
i'm not a puzzle you can solve, i'm a ******* human being(i'm worse than that
better start to count your blessings)
don't dedicate your battlecries to me
i won't give you a token of my love i don't give thanks to people who want to skin me alive
if i try hard enough i wonder if i will be able to taste the blood on your gums
have your teeth retracted yet?are you safe?can i sneak out
the back door, maybe, and
hope that you won't sink your vampire smile into the nape of my neck?
don't **** around with me you know exactly who i am
i'm a ******* monster i'm in your nightmares, babe
(as a matter of fact, don't call me babe
it'll only make my skin crawl when i snap your neck)
your skin is a patchwork quilt
let me wear it for a while
let me breathe in when you tell me to, act like a lady
but i'm not a lady, baby i'm a scourge
i'll end you faster than you can blink my poems are dripping red
let me empty them into your throat
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 11:45 AM UTC
gazing off heady rooftops
at pincushion skies,
buttoned with clouds,
and pierced by Gotham's spires
at the sAw-ToOtH horizon.
oh, on clearer nights,
you blazed through the city,
lighting the stars on fire,
and sowing wild oats
while the moon's gleam dizzied itself,
dancing circles in the beautiful
disarray of your golden curls.
with every bounding step
carpe-ing the whole of the diem,
only to oblige yourself
to the whim of the noctem.
you were my heroin(e).
oh, on warmer days,
you took in life at every breath,
then gave back to the world,
expiring something equally elemental-
"air well spent," i'd think,
neither matter nor soul
created or lost, rather,
each enriched by simply
having known the other.
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 6:57 AM UTC
☺☻☺☻☺☻
Post-Christian pornstar unsubdued,
My lady—you are too tattooed;
bored, studded, and nearly as cheap
as everyone else tossed on the heap.
You don’t excite, inspire or alarm.
You’re just a big Alterna-Bore. No harm
done to me; baby you’re a pincushion
of piercingly superficial fashion
Neither tribal nor demonic—just silly.
I pity you, pierced like that willy-nilly…
Some conserva-matron with a gun
is edgier, riskier (and way more fun)
Israeli soldiers are hotter than you.
1940’s pinups sexier. It’s true.
That’s why we won. Now they’re losing it.
And so am I… but thanks for choosing it.
(War)
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
I’m a pincushion.
Every *****
Every poke,
A pinpoint for survival.
The proof lies on my fingertips and thighs,
These scares are immune to healing.
It haunts the space between my skull, like a catchy song.
I’m told ‘we’ll’ get through this,
Yet I’m fighting alone against this chronic illness within.
No one knows the battle perusing inside of me every second of the day
It’s the tick of a clock, un-wanted and nuisance.
My life was stolen, swept into an unexpected twirl of a storm,
Sweeping me into a whirlwind of emotions
I’m left stranded, taken out of comfort with no direction
I’m hit with these battles to make me stronger,
Yet my strength is stretched so thin.
You won’t define me.
You won’t control me.
My sweet chronic illness,
Diabetes.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 6:14 AM UTC
To walk until this gradual curve gives out-
Or to walk until the point where "up"
is sideways
and jump.
I'd fall for countless hours
pass all the stars and waywards
who, like myself
couldn't walk a straight line in broad daylight
I'm too sober
and too addicted to vice
I'm a pincushion of anxious
and when the tension releases,
explosions shake my achy feeble frame
or just plain mistakes get made
I feel like I can't handle life
I feel like I can't cope
with even the slightest feather's poke
I feel useless
a self-destructive nuisance
who speaks grandiose
and uses words like verbose
but couldn't tie my own shoes
-note that these don't have laces-
or might miss a bus cause
**** look at those clouds"
or
"man, bees are super weird"
and meanwhile I'm crashing through china shop two.
I'm a bull without horns,
ever bitter, never scorned.
so I'll walk in silly circles
until this curve gives out.
I'll walk until I'm back where I started
and change course
I'll walk until my own head makes sense
I'll walk until I feel like I have enough room in my body
to contain me.
I'll walk until my legs give in
and my shoulders slump forward
from exhaustion or boredom
I'll walk until I figure out there is no
"up"
and jump.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 3:23 PM UTC
you’ve told me before,
self-loathing is just
a common cliché,
now everybody’s doing it.
that’s not to say
i haven’t seen how
your eyes roam over
your body like you’d been
stitched together with all
the wrong fabrics
i don’t think
i’ve ever seen you
look as dissatisfied as
when you look
at yourself.
you’ve told me before,
self-loathing is just like
an std, everybody’s had it
at some point.
it’s just that some people
were smart enough to
use protection or are abstinent
and they’re the ones
who sleep easy at night
while you’ve always got an itch
to scratch it was never clear
how they toed the line
between their self love
and hate better
than others and you
were their other,
caught them staring
and couldn’t tell the line
between love and hate
(thought you saw it
split the ground open
wanted to dip your toes
into the nothing between
you were scared
you’d fall in).
but you won’t tell
me what it’s like
when you look at yourself,
and your reflection
is rag-doll ragged
the perfect pincushion
and you pinpoint
all the split seams
moth holes your
smile is just a
loose thread you stop
to unravel
and you won’t say
what it’s like
when your reflection is
all pins and points
and you’re not sure
if the rag-doll face
underneath is still
there, at one point
she smiles
like only girls with pins
in their lips can,
her lips unravel
(you don’t smile).
you’ve told me before,
self-loathing is just
a common cliché,
there’s no way you’d
be caught dead
doing it.
i’ve seen the red-capped pins
you keep with your make-up.
they look so much
like my own.
hey.
are you still there?
i can't see you beneath
all those pins.
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 6:26 PM UTC
Maybe I'm the dark brown eyes you stare into
The ones you see your reflection in
Maybe I'm the hand combing through your jet black hair
Or the voice in the wind on an empty rooftop bar
Maybe I'm the brain you treat lesser than yours
Or the body in the room that tells you that you're not alone
Maybe I'm the throbbing **** you leave red Mac lipstick stains on
Or the stern screams that remind you of your father
Maybe I'm the lips touching your left cheek
Or the fingers that fix your nose ring
Who am I if not for all the times I've been cheated on?
Why should I be more than a pincushion
For all the times your dad didn't tell you he loved you?
Who would I be to all of you if I weren't
eyes,
hands,
barely a brain,
a ****
and lips
?
Who am I if not a string of traumas
Walking my way through a path paved with eggshells and broken glass?
Who am I?
Jul 20, 2020
Jul 20, 2020 at 5:32 AM UTC
fall symmetrically
like pins in my throat
my pincushion body will not withstand the storm this time
and i will be gone for a long time
Dec 22, 2013
Dec 22, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
it is the rule,
now . we try new things.
i have houmus, thought
of you, pat. she bought
rye bread, thirty percent
reduced.
in price.
i bought a mending set,
packed in a tin, like the war,
full of little things.
pincushion, tomato shape,
with pins stuck in.
i bought you a geometry
set. draw shapes, measure
angles.
have you,
tried something new.
recently?
sbm.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
a pincushion heart
thorns in exchange for a rose
unrequited love
Jan 8, 2017
Jan 8, 2017 at 1:38 PM UTC
Breathe in the air, come back to life,
The short death of sleep, dreams the real heaven,
Or hell if a nightmare is giving you strife,
I find both of mine of late offer no haven.
If a dream, it just reminds me of what I want,
Things I can't have, doing things I could never do,
Nightmares to me are just life with a slant,
Scenarios, of failure that just seem destined to come true.
My escapes are all gone, and now I can't run,
I have to face my thoughts, like David to the giant,
So difficult, I find comfort in the thought of the gun,
Take it all away, never thinking, emotions running rampant.
But I wish not cause pain, and that takes a lot,
I am the pincushion of life, and take it with grace,
I will either survive, or break, a troublesome thought,
Bridges I will cross, and challenges I will have to face.
Welcome to the day, now go to work,
Wash it down with memories and friends,
Tell all the ways my mind can fork,
Go to sleep, then wake up, it never ends.
Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 10:46 PM UTC
a summer bloomer
treats leprosy and scabies
Pincushion Flower
Aug 10, 2022
Aug 10, 2022 at 9:26 PM UTC
It’s ironic, huh? How when the small of your back is pressing into beige carpeting with those nail polish stains from that one experiment in the eighth grade, your rib cage suffocating you as your lungs expand like a party balloon animal, that that’s when you are your strongest? Your fingertips are cold and blue, your cheeks flaming as if you had tried to stick the sun under your tongue, but all the while you only feel a slight warmth coursing through your veins and a pleasant breeze on your thighs. Shrapnel and pieces of broken stucco plant themselves in your forehead, tilted up towards the crumbling cerulean ceiling, but it only feels like the light sprinkling of rain you used to try to gulp down for refreshment. It is ironic that when you falter, you lift your shoulders a bit taller. You feel like you are falling apart, limbs numb yet pricked and prodded as the whole world’s pincushion, but you are being rebuilt out of marble. When your mind’s scaffolding is collapsing, your face still keeps that slight smile in the corner of your mouth stained with berry lip shade. Everyone admires your genuine smile while you know that it was carved by Donatello himself, your torment hidden behind layers of compacted stone.
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 5:35 PM UTC
I may have never been the light of your life but you were mine. Recently when people voice the word ‘therapy’, it elicits in me a feral sort of anger. It's a routine: rage, panic, and exhaustion.
My mother’s quaint china dishes have found a steady home on my sienna wooden floors. Please understand why I taste acid and rancid flesh when I think of your hazel eyes and strong arms. My Tracy Chapman record echoes monotonously out to me, but the blood simmering in the grooves of my brain fills my ears with a sound that displeases my auditory senses. It sounds like static from a broken radio. The wind howls through the cracks of my windows and sometimes it cajoles the door open. Somehow, my penchant for you never fails to disappoint me as my eyes flit up for the briefest second to see if you've arrived. I use my teacups as wine flutes and my heart as a pincushion, but maybe your broad shoulders and firm chest could shelter me from myself. My desk stands proudly in the corner of the room. Enrobed in dust and half-eaten pizza slices, it stands proof of what you've done to me. Mr. Teddy is taking a nap. His cottony, soft, white insides poke out in tufts from under the patchwork.
Another one bites the dust.
The poison seeps through the gaps in between my teeth and panic swallows me like an ocean. If you want, I would clad your feet in my shoes but I have never been one to chase after something so I cannot fathom how to explain to you why they have holes on their soles, much like my soul. The towel pools at my feet as I feel the heat behind my eyelids start to cool. Exhaustion sweeps over me like a summer breeze. I can hear fast cars as the put me to sleep.
It smells like petrichor; wet earth after the storm.
Sep 27, 2017
Sep 27, 2017 at 10:50 PM UTC
i cannot
stay stuck
when time froze
at 7:07
as my world
came crashing
down and
tear-filled icicles
pierced this
pincushion
heart...
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 5:24 PM UTC