"pinstripe" poems
Crazy passion fast deep soul kiss warnings word breathe reckless love devastated desk art struggle pinstripe attempts drunk ghost lost wind beauty hunger soul smile elegance latte knowing containment bond ink shallow identity measure chaos stumbling darling life dance frenzy sweat hole paper haunted only dreams ****** vandalized scars Achilles proceedings bare deep still pain inside lied courts darkness wind step empty rocky soul whisper eyes alone wrapped inside Athens love smile abuse truth lies time mind bungalow knowing liar violated Pandora’s entanglement flashbacks ****** self-preservation private suit weakness baklava hide lips ******* played deserve hold earth destruction haunted coffin judgment dreams hands eternity sleep sunset lips hidden kissed desire champagne stars taint lovers fallen what **** PR glistening intense echoes seeing taste depth care finally beach rolling salt binding heat lost quietly resumed park come believe myself arms world you skin love stranger now
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC
i love you when we're alone
because you eviscerate me in front of your friends
but alone you kiss the veins in my arms
press your small hips into my hips & sigh into my neck
& blink so slowly that i can hear your eyelids whispering
you won't hold my hand in public
because you blatantly want to seem available to other men
but when it's only you & it's only me
we lie on our backs letting the summer rain collect in puddles
in our bellybuttons & you swear to god
there's only one way this can end
you say i can't meet your parents
but everything i do reminds you of your father
that tall strong man of your childhood
singing sinatra to your mother in the kitchen
just like i do when i sneak behind you &
tickle your neck with my tongue you're
giggling as i carry you like a bride
into your bedroom for naptime or playtime
you only miss me when you're by yourself
like a flower hidden in a fenced-in backyard
but you ignore my texts most days
because when your friends are around you're busy
dancing toward the sun & lying to them
about where you spent last night &
the blueberry pancakes you ate for breakfast
you don't mention the ticklish new rib spot i found
or the quiet music we make together at night
or the stars we wished on with our pinky fingers tied together
i love you most when we're sticky asleep alone
you humming in turquoise ******* snuggled into my armpit
with your warm hand melting into my chest
& me in the pinstripe boxer briefs you bought with
my arm under and reaching for your exposed breast
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
Keen little neons
playfully jump around, colliding with her mind
and she sits there, legs crossed, her ***** aroused,
but it gets doused as the Wall Street pinstripe type walks by
she utters a sigh, looks at the sky, the ending's nigh, and it's night.
Skyline looks pretty
beams and lighted apartment block kitchens and real pop-up ads,
them keen little neons,
her eyes flicker like those hanging lights in horror films,
perpetuate fear, the skeletons are in the clear.
I told you, you schmuck, the end is near.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
White collared men in pinstripe suits sit casually across from one another,
completely indifferent.
They discuss ways to obtain power and how to silence the opposition.
The opposition being women.
Power being the rights to our own bodies.
These are the men who make laws against abortion to disguise their ulterior motives.
Trump’s America they call it.
Where belittling women is somehow a “trend”,
Where this type of thing has become “okay”.
Where the women’s rights movement has been threatened time and time again.
All of this,
In efforts to silence our war cries.
But here’s the thing about us that even history seems to have forgotten.
We Are Women.
Our mothers have been crafting our battle armour since before we were born.
Gave it to us the day we were first interrupted in the middle of a sentence.
They told us to be brave, to be bold, to be unapologetic.
To speak our truth and remain strong even when we feel utterly defeated.
You see,
We don’t really do submissive.
Won’t sit back and let you do as you please.
Rather,
we’ll continue to challenge your authority.
Make you wish you kept your laws off our bodies in the first place.
To those who continue to undermine our capability,
I say to you this.
This body, is my own.
This body, is power.
In fact,
I don’t blame you for being afraid.
Because you and I both know that this body is capable of things so extraordinary that only God Himself can envision them.
You can try to silence us,
To take away our voice.
But we will only grow stronger,
Grow louder.
Angrier.
You will hear us
And you will listen.
My body,
My rules.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 9:19 PM UTC
Arise Great Britain, swell wi pride
this is no time tae split, divide,
a hero needs us on his side
a man apart
Brave Osbourne comes wi manly stride
and lion heart
When danger ca’s, he stauns and fights
He’ll haud the baddies bang tae rights
Nou in their een he sees the whites
and yells, “Attack!”
He’s got oor mojo in his sights –
He wants it back!
Let’s cheer his valour tae the roof
Condemn the wans wha’d cry him couff
And pray oor Geordie’s bulletproof
As on he flies
Then fit him wi a parachute
and wave guidbye.
This GM perfect Tory clone
need not rely on un-manned drone
He’ll tackle ISIS on his own
their fight dissolve
His pores squirt pure testosterone
his eyes, resolve
Just watch the baddies turn and flee
as George, wi patriotic glee
wreaks vengeance for democracy
a one-man dojo
And cries, “Come, Britain, flock to me,
and feel my mojo!”
Or mibbes we should check this twice.
Although the image may be nice
The blood we risk on his advice
may never stop -
But Geordie will not sacrifice
one ****** drop
These profiteering pinstripe ******
wha ken no life but politics
Are no the first tae play these tricks
while deals are made
Why no just wave a crucifix
and shout “Crusade!”
So hooses burn and horror grows
A stream o misery outflows
While braggard Geordie struts and crows,
"Ye want a fight?"
I’d dump him on Damascus road
tae see the light
Ye plot the death o innocents
Tae score yir points in parliament
Yir fascist mocking o dissent
it suits ye well
George Osbourne, ye're a proper gent
**** ye tae hell.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 5:54 AM UTC
Hi . . . This is about the kinds of people who work in corporate big money office buildings . . . Imagine them at lunchtime, how they interact and picture the scene in any . . .
Busy little bistro
Sharp - sharks - circle - the - pack
Pinstripe finned and eager
Snapping their snacks back with ease
Points to prove with nothing to lose
No cracks in their creases
They're keen to return to the fray.
These boys play with girls
Aren't yet uncles with nieces
Just unproven throwaway pieces . . .
In shiny . eat ***** . suited up . Chelsea boots
Bidding for ***** with cute looks and loot
Touting with confident ***** . . .
As mobile as their smart devices
Loose
Next . . . ?
And fresh from a mornings abuse
And fifteen years of fear . .
Beleaguered older shirts sit . .
Flogged dogs with weak barks
Parked packed into packs.
Tongue tied ties tied together
Safety is numbers
Get each others backs
These partially satisfied cats
Know today is NOT their day . .
That was yesterday . . .
Obliging lives and mortgages
The reasons why they stay
Passing Cabs cruise . . .
Seen it all before.
Sat in the back a high class *****
Glazed eyes glancing away
From her play-away payday
Nibbles in the boardroom . .
Napkins . . for the dribbles
A working lunch for this Girl
Her money-shot a wrap without applause
Was just a . . . pause . . . between paws . .
Then Dora on reception
John, who minds the door
Evie in the IT room
Or dave . . who buffs the Marble
Sparkles glinting in the floor . .
And the guards . . who guard . . what exactly . . ?
All of this . . ? Networking . . !!!
Everybody's selling something
It doesn't quite stink
But it definitely smells
A little high
As time whiles by
Seems this
Is the state of our nation
And in this state
Defines our aspirations
And yes . . this state's a splinter
Taunting my imagination . . .
Do I stake my place within this game
Or sit in observation
Commentating on a race
Where human nature fakes it's place
Where people sit as players
Yet no one wears their own face
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 12:20 PM UTC
Her fingertips loosed the glass
bottle, which had
of late
gathered rain like the
hands of paupers.
Glitter in a heartbeat.
to be collected by old battered shoes
or car tyres
and streetwise magpies.
it joins a city evensong
this oceanic roar of nothing
fusing chords of cars and smoke
and lonely dogs
with hacks
and throngs
of perambulating suits
and suitors
trampling athwart broads of concrete
As swifts in summer.
We swim in it
through open atriums
and barren rooms of
magnolia and magnolia and magnolia.
All the while if you look harder
you see through chinks a sepulchre
in each greying tower
ranging higher and higher still.
Machines and machinations
stacking life upon life to
build pyramids
to gaudy kings
in pinstripe or herringbone.
Flumes of fumes ***** like floods
Into and out of train stops
and bus stands.
Circling lungs like hungry crows.
Crows which haunt
Bombed out chapels made new
resuscitated with waxen ivy
and ivory lilies.
And the leaves of saintly oak trees
chatter in shrinking crevices of green
story telling
Of how people and things grow old.
And you can walk these streets
And dive too like cormorants into
The platitudes of city living.
Soaked to the skin in sound
to tell your story
like the shards
of a broken bottle.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
it was that i was. gurgling a valorous *** of cells at the bottom
of the notched brick habitat of sickly algebra. and i and. with all
the dirt meticulously skeletal. trenchant chaotic lips blathering
skinny vocal animals. the smooth monkeys pinstripe about the
square in my needle city. well and i am an we. with your habitual
pocket of blood and dust in correct lumps small and large proportionately
spitted on your ideal, at my hips your hips(hand in hand). we walk
bythe specific straights towering sky breakers hollering reflective
skin. the neon electric residue of light smacks my eyelets. and
some ****** **** with the night air agreeably. but i,m a yours
and only. yes. so let's make some drips of clear tremulous benedictions
to this vibrant lovely hell
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 12:07 PM UTC
A thousand night trains rattling through a wrestling match of junctions and burnt out- razed to the ash and soil as a field of maize in the dry season. Chaos. The lipstick from corner to corner were meticulously painted, a new hardware store in town. She reminded me of an article I read in the Baltimore sun about a woman who kidnapped herself to steady her supply of whiskey and cigarettes because her husband caught on to her taking money from his cash register at Rich’s Shoe Horn, a leather boot specialist in town right on the corner of Second and Hickory. I couldn’t trust her. Her chaos. I ran into two guys not from around here, wherever that is, with some fine lookin’ pinstripe suits and I automatically new they weren’t looking for grub or a shot of ***** Sometimes a guy won’t put his fingers on a cold bottle of beer, and that’s when you know fingerprints could become an issue later. I’ve seen it. Chaos. I’ve two-stepped chaos across the planks with the chairs up many a time. Shut off the neon, it’s time to nibble on the muzzle of a 38 until these guys dry you out like a broke *** *** I just think of Bukowski every time they drain me for all my cash. I know it’s only going towards coke or some **** I’m not too fond of (due to past experiences). I’ve done it all. Chaos. Well, you don’t go into the pool hall business with dancing shoes and a three piece suit. Roll up them sleeves boy. It’s dirt. It’s grime. It’s…
Chaos.
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
Noon, I’m next in line behind an old man.
“I want to withdraw fourteen dollars,” he says.
The teller, a young woman with a soft sweater, says
“There’s only—let me check—yes—fifty-two cents.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She tilts her head. “Sorry.”
The sorrow is genuine.
He wears a pinstripe suit, frayed,
wafting an odor of smoke and earth.
A smartly folded handkerchief, breast pocket,
has a dark stain. His silver beard
is neatly trimmed.
On one wall above the safe is a giant
mural of teamsters driving a stagecoach.
The man says, “There might be—”
“No. It’s always the same.”
For a moment he closes his eyes,
a slow blink while indignities of a lifetime pass.
Without a word, the young woman slides a sandwich
over the countertop through the teller window.
“Blessings on you,” the man says with a nod,
and he walks away with a limp.
I cash my check, a big one
from three days of messy labor
for a matron of the horsey set.
“He lives by the creek,” the teller says
without my asking. “Under a bridge.”
Outside the bank, in the parking lot of glistening cars,
I look around for the pinstripe suit, the silver beard.
I might offer the man something.
He might refuse to take it.
Anyway, no matter:
he has disappeared like the last stagecoach.
Only the blessing remains.
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
Sunday morning and I’m tucking
piano sonatas in my skirt.
He’s setting the gun and I’m
making peace blankets.
He is war.
I am I am I am air.
Tuesday night and he’s floating
candles on lily pads off the canoe.
I’m wetting my feet.
He’s rowing soundlessly
dreaming of geography
and I’m hitching my skirt
to jump into the water.
His pinstripe jacket looks better
on the floor
Wednesday afternoon
he’s apologizing but I’m too late
pressing my lips to the door
I throw open
the IamIamIam air prayer
he’s apologizing but
setting the gun
clicking in ammunition
aiming aiming at my heart…
When he pulled the trigger
I bet I bled music notes.
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 5, 2010 at 8:22 PM UTC
The cold sun beats
on gold pinstripe pants.
Between the same fingers
that grip a pen
a physical form of smoke;
cancerous, like divisive rhetoric
dictating dialogue between
red and blue threads; white
in the middle turned
a depressed gray.
Stand, stare at
a stale banner;
salute 50 blank stars,
the right choice
follows like a thief
with forlorn hands for feet.
Dead in the water,
Freedom drowning, shouting
in a salty blue tune.
The sun watches from
its godly golden throne.
Out, uttering among
waves of stars,
speaking with nothing to say.
Freedom sinks to the
depths of Hell
as if but smoke
trying to make waves.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 6:01 PM UTC
We wrote our names on the beach in animal bones
as a vivisection, on our love.
there, she’s whispering into shells
into their Fibonaccian, trumpeted, dresses
and full-cheeked into a razor clam flute.
I, too, gave my blood to grease our domestica
and hung names on stars over the nighttime sea
always accompanied as I were
with the shark-eye, death, of her looks.
We dressed up the walls of home in black and pinstripe,
filled the place up with lit and lightless places,
Shadowboxed, shadowfucked, and silently argued.
Spent hours inside, laying floorboards
and then laying on them
to stare at the sodium lights
and discuss the inkblots on our eyes.
We vivisected our lives,
and splashed it on the walls
and carved it into the carpets.
We set alight to christmas trees
when the kids were sleeping upstairs.
We dressed in each-other’s reddening horror
and answered the door.
Valentines day was full of bone bouquets,
the gripper rods grew through the carpet
so on them we danced.
I prayed for the first time in the first year
and every one hit me subesquently
like I was its anvil.
I should have gone to war.
Because it makes forever shorter
things can only happen right now.
I watched everything in our domestica,
like when the static moved off the television
and played on the window
gutting me of my escape.
The smiles hung on our faces like lupus,
We had people round,
we cooked and coughed and choked
And their faces peeked round from the doorframe
and laughed.
The domestica lives
only to be a bit of fun,
but in the very same span of time
that decided to **** the birds on my windowsill
and my children’s love for me
and my dexterity.
We’ve happened to the whole world too
I promise you, my love,
my little hospice fire,
my flat tire at night at nowhere,
the lie you recognise means it’s over,
A field of a thousand three-leaved clovers,
the brightest night when you’re hiding,
your heart attack on holiday,
your bloodstained bed sheet
And sleep, whilst outside
the sleet and snow makes every emergency
harder to get to, and still the morning
much more beautiful.
I, you, we happened.
Jan 2, 2016
Jan 2, 2016 at 12:02 PM UTC
spin—for a moment even some yarn
in which we both give a ****
and we spend long, quiet evenings quoting
out of biographies of JFK or Bryan Ferry
and forget for a while all the things
we hate about each other, the things that
make us spit on the ground when they
come to mind;
forget them and maybe make love like
normal people. not against the counter before work
lifting your pinstripe skirt—rolling it up, really,
over your *** to gird the top of your hips.
(chaffing crown of ****** thorns)
maybe instead give me more than
5 minutes
and let me bury my face down in you and
you can wrap your legs around my head
to keep me there as long as you please.
and maybe later i'll laugh, sitting against the headboard, long-hand writing,
at something one of my characters has said and looking up
from an account you're working on you won't
understand my laughter but you will be
glad of it.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 11:26 PM UTC
I watched you turn into
A punching bag
Until the sand worked to settle in pit of your stomach
It’s the kind of love so heavy and jagged now
Like a kidney stone that you thought would never pass
Until it passes
Painful and ******
And you think
“How could such a small thing like that
Hurt me so badly”
And you finally understand forgiveness
Like the pinstripe scars on your back
You have to feel the metal leave you
Before you can let anything go
And you have to remind yourself
Someone is always going to love you
Despite your broken record
Skipping at the spot where
Your song hits its chorus
You have to remind yourself
That eventually
The thin metal fibers will
Find the next groove
And then you can groove
Into the beat breakin’ happy
Of your constantly confused smile
And settle your doubts
Into the arms of someone
Who doesn’t have all the answers
But knows exactly when to hold you
You have to remind yourself
How often the right thing to say
Is sitting between a bitten lip
And deep breath
And finally a smile
A laugh
A tear
Don’t offer answers to the questions you never wanted to be asked
Don’t tan the leather
Of the thickest parts of your skin
Even punching bags break
Don’t hang your head to watch
How your feet pace towards the end
The end is always gonna be there
And remember
Someone
Is always going to love you
Sep 5, 2011
Sep 5, 2011 at 7:49 PM UTC
It was long years ago, I took the fifteenth day
to suffer hour on hour, the usual way:
Deduce the bottom line in dollars, even cents.
It makes no sense, no sense.
And even worse the guilty pang -
The overwhelming sturm und drang
that one day soon, the pinstripe suit,
the man that makes my machinations moot
will tap tap tap on my metaphorical door
and I will be at liberty no more!
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 11:18 AM UTC
It’s fifteen below
And a fat buck lurches,
Spindle legged, four pointed,
And cardinal -
Fishtail and brake.
I don’t trust this road.
I don’t trust these tires.
I don’t trust these ditches,
Smoothed and driven with snow.
I’m a six-layered pig at the wheel -
Unsleek unchic -
But I’m warm, **** I’m warm,
And the road slides like pinstripe
On white gabardine.
And the waning moon,
The waning moon,
Low in the rise,
Gibbous and garish,
Scabbing a cloud,
Spills the whole thing blue.
I don’t trust the red eyes of mailboxes,
Always willing to dive the grill.
I don’t trust the farmer
That lives on the hill,
Behind the blue spruce line,
Behind the blue flickered window,
Counting on futures,
Clumsy as mittens,
Still as the finger drift
Thudding the glide
Like dull scissors
Snagged in gridded giftwrap guides.
I still taste the coffee
Down under the tar.
I trust my smokes.
Yes, I trust my smokes.
I trust my hat. I trust my boots.
I trust I’ll never find my roots.
I trust the jumpers, there in the trunk.
I trust every single roadkill thunk.
I trust every knuckled ill-advised ride
To tell me yes, oh yes, I'm alive, I’m alive.
Dec 12, 2019
Dec 12, 2019 at 5:26 PM UTC
Commuters, traffic stuck in various jams
yes we have all been there.
Exhaust fumes choking passengers
enjoying coffee in the square.
Market stalls set up
crates of fish align the pavement
cauliflowers and cabbages
blocking stairways on basements.
school children being awkward in four by fours
dominating the single traffic lane
meanwhile platform two at the station
annunces the arrival of the early train.
The departure lounge at the airport
cross legged pinstripe suits wait
eye balling the screens for the appropriate gate.
Taxis called, and then whistled for
wet, cheerful postmen frog march
to your red painted door.
The milkman has been
the bread has risen and been cooked.
Toll roads are heaving
and the motorways over-booked.
Queues for tickets, the cars have been parked
time to compose yourself from the drive
get through day with relief
and then it all starts up again at five!
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 2:58 AM UTC
Cosmic Ball
Dressed in a suit of pinstripe stars,
He’s discussed war and played chess with Mars,
Far, in foreign solar systems,
He chuckles with their planetary distortion,
He’s gambled for the diamonds of Neptune,
Bowled infinite starlit lanes with Jupiter,
Witnessed sacred scry’s and change from Saturn,
Witnessed lies, severed ties,
Much he has seen, he who walks starlit skies,
Martini’s of primordial soup,
With a scoop of star,
Shared in lieu of chaos, with Venus,
Knocking back a few, so far,
He’s raced Mercury around the sun,
Every lap done, feeling victory, whether he’s lost or won, praises they sung, harmony rung,
He’s sat on the surface of Sol, sunglasses dawned,
Other then growth and to learn he has no defined goal,
Just playing a role,
Breaking energetic chains,
And immortal bars,
He slow dances with a myriad of stars,
Celestial bodies of divine will, power, grace,
Orbiting around him in suits, silk, suede nylon and lace,
All dancing to a distant interstellar song,
A long distant echo of light,
A throng of stars creating the constellations mighty heights,
A universe locked in constant cosmic push and pull,
Never empty, never full,
He reflects, riding the back of a wild cosmic bull,
Riding back to mother, back to varied perspectives of what is true,
Back to a planet of green and blue,
Till the next invitation come queue,
To another night in primordial stew of sights and seeings,
Another quaint Ball with fantastic cosmic beings..
May 8, 2019
May 8, 2019 at 9:12 PM UTC
Its autumn biloma
And spring-bile holocausts--
I love them both differently-
While we scream at mountains
To hiccups that show-the-buds-
Of leaves to lions.
This love is pinstripe
-Daggers making femur bone
Candles,
With silk weavers and-
Asterisk ribbons,
But one--
Is more
Friend than
Louver.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
Rapt by prognosis, sterile elocution
Acute halitosis, banal delusion
Digital notice of distant retribution
Thrombosis will move you before revolution
Brash adolescent right-side part,
Strand obsolescence, abstract art
Pinstripe filaments, two turned backs
Bowed in benevolence, borrowing slack
Hieroglyphic ruminations,
Plastered protestations.
Muscle memory incantations,
Aquifuge of patience.
Future shock, feminists ride-centaurs
Skin-tan hedonists reside-indoors
Tin-can telephone spinal chord,
Sings-an injured semitone final word
40 years since you were a punk
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 6:01 AM UTC
Pinstripe Suit
When I'm an old lunatic I shall wear a black and white pinstriped suit
I'm trapped inside the prison walls
That used to be my mind
The wallowing woman that I used to be
Has long been left behind
There are times I'm quite alert
My memory’s still intact
Then there are days when I shall disappear
And no it’s not an act
With an anesthetic air to it
The squeaky doors
My mind flows like a never ending pit
And creaky carpet bare floors
The halls as silent as a morgue
Pill meals to which I never want
They're like a cardboard box that kicks you numb
My old memories still do haunt
Blindly walking the paths laid out for me
When I'm old I shall be completely crazy
I'll scream and shout loudly to make sure you hear me clearly
I'll ramble on and on about my past times
When suddenly I am old and start to wear black and white pinstriped suits
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 10:56 PM UTC
The colorful lighted Rockefeller Center Christmas tree
Thousands of tourist who want to see
Radio City Music Hall with the Rockette’s heels in the air
New York City at Christmas time, which no other city can compare
The department stores with their individual window Christmas Themes
The philosophy of Christmas in knowing what it means
I just got a news bulletin that Santa has been seen wearing a business suit
It wasn’t the red and white
It was Santa looking like an Executive in pinstripe and had a handkerchief like a handiwipe and was smoking a pipe
It was a superior brand from Saks
However let me think back
There was some assortment with both Bergdorf and Saks
Santa was seen shaking hands with the Mayor Of New York
This was a sight too see
But this is between the reporter and me
Yes it was Santa with a whole new business attitude
But there was a candy cane pin attached to his lapel on his suit
That was an attire to sweeten a business deal to pursuit
I can’t believe Christmas is almost here
Everything will be hung with special loving care
Those misfortunate will surely get a share
Christmas in New York City
Coldness in your nose
A look on your face as a perhaps in suppose
Then a surprise of a Christmas ornament engraved with your name
Special preparation being the aim
Look its snowing and lets have a game
Our hearts filled with joy and our minds concentrated on tame
As the sun goes down
The night becomes with all the stars around
A night to fall asleep and eyes closed in a sandman’s trap of bound
Finally sleeping with quiet and nowhere is a sound.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
Strutting Out
I love wearing a well tailored suit.
Strutting in my sartorial repute.
Crisp spread shirt collar, matching tie
And dimpled half Windsor knot
All with puffy pocket square to eye.
Dark navy with a faint pinstripe
Two button coat and Four button sleeve
Blood red silk lining type
British tailored elegance to perceive
Slacks cut just a half inch to the back
Stepping out lady on my arm
Copyright 2014
Richard L Ratliff
Aug 13, 2018
Aug 13, 2018 at 9:25 PM UTC