"pinup" poems - Hello Poetry

Bubble and pop sweet baby darling blow blow me, ***** and bring up all the sweet candy corn you can find. shush and shake sweet honey babe shush me and taste the shore with the tip of your tongue can you taste the salt, sugar? do you feel the rush, daddy? chew me up like a piece of pink chunky bubble gum and store me behind your ear. draw me some cotton candy to munch on and paint yourself a rocking chair to sit and watch. blow me, babe. pin me up against the wall and down underneath you let me be your pinup girl pull my stockings up and sit me down on your lap give me smacks for bad behavior and leave candy colored crimson smeared across my chin. oh, sweet baby darling, don't you crave to swallow me whole?

0

May 12, 2013

May 12, 2013 at 4:33 AM UTC

deana-luna

Sugar Daddy

Bubble and pop sweet baby darling blow blow me, ***** and bring up all the sweet candy corn you can find. shush and shake sweet honey babe shush me and taste the shore with the tip of your tongue can you taste the salt, sugar? do you feel the rush, daddy? chew me up like a piece of pink chunky bubble gum and store me behind your ear. draw me some cotton candy to munch on and paint yourself a rocking chair to sit and watch. blow me, babe. pin me up against the wall and down underneath you let me be your pinup girl pull my stockings up and sit me down on your lap give me smacks for bad behavior and leave candy colored crimson smeared across my chin. oh, sweet baby darling, don't you crave to swallow me whole?

21

Pin you on my wall like a pinup girl This **** about to rock your world.

0

Oct 19, 2024

Oct 19, 2024 at 2:43 PM UTC

taypen

Pinup Girl

Pin you on my wall like a pinup girl This **** about to rock your world.

2

kick your legs like... coy tilt to your hips just... that, yeah. hold it- Now... bite the red lip, flash your eyes. hair curled into an unlikely peak... pointed toes align. Oh, Vixen-ish Skin, slick and soft I wish I could wear you more often but like so many in disguise the mystique thins if viewed repeatedly instead I will keep myself in a closet of seduction and pull out my pinup on a rainy day. the glitter and stars will keep the gloom away.

0

Aug 26, 2013

Aug 26, 2013 at 12:48 PM UTC

f-white

Peep

kick your legs like... coy tilt to your hips just... that, yeah. hold it- Now... bite the red lip, flash your eyes. hair curled into an unlikely peak... pointed toes align. Oh, Vixen-ish Skin, slick and soft I wish I could wear you more often but like so many in disguise the mystique thins if viewed repeatedly instead I will keep myself in a closet of seduction and pull out my pinup on a rainy day. the glitter and stars will keep the gloom away.

30

There's always been something so Hollywood about her-- and I don't mean 21st Century ******** I'm talkin' Judy Garland, you're the bee's knees type of Hollywood. Now, listen'-- this girl-- I'm talkin' Bombshell-Cutie (she'll blow your fuckin'socks off). I'm talkin' Cinematic Beauty Queen; skin freckled with film grain the same way the night sky is freckled with constellation, mouth parted like velvet curtains, only to reveal the sweetest prose. She is Mystique-Fatale, blazon in colour among dull, sepia tones-- an Oz among all the dreary Kansases. She is allure and poeticism, hair curled grand, dressed to the nines in lace and satin (they wonder what lies beyond the half moons of her ******* and the slit in her gown, if the butterflies run rampant between her knees like everyone says). Do not underestimate her-- she is both Shirley-Temple-Sweetheart (her kindness does not falter) and Pinup-Girl-Honey (one would not think to challenge-- to break-- a woman so prolifically brazen, but they try anyway). In a world filled with actresses-- please, darlings, save the acting for the stage, ******* it-- she is so ineffably herself. She does not reserve her emotion for the theatre alone; she is not afraid to cry, and-- Jesus-- when she cries the earth shakes with the very profusions of an opera singer's vibrato. And, God, you should hear her poetry, brimmed with images picturesque and tragic, straight outta the movies it would seem. Yet, her words ring with something so inconceivably real. And that's what you've always loved best about her-- she is the truest person you've ever met. It's a shame, then, that you wouldn't stay for the grand finale. But, with or without you, this show must go on. (and it has).

0

Jan 15, 2019

Jan 15, 2019 at 9:34 PM UTC

VinylPoetry

Cinematic Beauty Queen (The Show Must Go On)

There's always been something so Hollywood about her-- and I don't mean 21st Century ******** I'm talkin' Judy Garland, you're the bee's knees type of Hollywood. Now, listen'-- this girl-- I'm talkin' Bombshell-Cutie (she'll blow your fuckin'socks off). I'm talkin' Cinematic Beauty Queen; skin freckled with film grain the same way the night sky is freckled with constellation, mouth parted like velvet curtains, only to reveal the sweetest prose. She is Mystique-Fatale, blazon in colour among dull, sepia tones-- an Oz among all the dreary Kansases. She is allure and poeticism, hair curled grand, dressed to the nines in lace and satin (they wonder what lies beyond the half moons of her ******* and the slit in her gown, if the butterflies run rampant between her knees like everyone says). Do not underestimate her-- she is both Shirley-Temple-Sweetheart (her kindness does not falter) and Pinup-Girl-Honey (one would not think to challenge-- to break-- a woman so prolifically brazen, but they try anyway). In a world filled with actresses-- please, darlings, save the acting for the stage, ******* it-- she is so ineffably herself. She does not reserve her emotion for the theatre alone; she is not afraid to cry, and-- Jesus-- when she cries the earth shakes with the very profusions of an opera singer's vibrato. And, God, you should hear her poetry, brimmed with images picturesque and tragic, straight outta the movies it would seem. Yet, her words ring with something so inconceivably real. And that's what you've always loved best about her-- she is the truest person you've ever met. It's a shame, then, that you wouldn't stay for the grand finale. But, with or without you, this show must go on. (and it has).

89

*Pinup girls swinging from the trees Rosy cheeks and shiny knees Flickering lights behind my eyes Rolling clouds hanging in the sky Closing my lids to the sweet respite Beautiful euphoria sweeping through the night Twinkling stars burning up in light Lovers basking in the moon's delight Cotton sticking in my throat Like the words I never spoke Dragonflies humming above the pond Fleeting notes of lovers song I feel the nerves beneath my skin Alive and buzzing from the warmth of winds Kissing collarbones with empty lips Like it did when we were kids Bees crawling up my neck With fragile wings and dainty legs I dreamed I was the queen of them Proctecting me in the face of death*

0

Feb 15, 2017

Feb 15, 2017 at 10:46 AM UTC

desertrose

L$D

*Pinup girls swinging from the trees Rosy cheeks and shiny knees Flickering lights behind my eyes Rolling clouds hanging in the sky Closing my lids to the sweet respite Beautiful euphoria sweeping through the night Twinkling stars burning up in light Lovers basking in the moon's delight Cotton sticking in my throat Like the words I never spoke Dragonflies humming above the pond Fleeting notes of lovers song I feel the nerves beneath my skin Alive and buzzing from the warmth of winds Kissing collarbones with empty lips Like it did when we were kids Bees crawling up my neck With fragile wings and dainty legs I dreamed I was the queen of them Proctecting me in the face of death*

20

Whispered at night, a rapidly tumbling neon triangle stuck between decibles. Thunder drums in fields, the fairy statues on my mother's nightstand. And in the palmy middle, quicksand. Knot at my neck; laughs are pulled from me like petals. Have I loved you, Have I not? [Walking through town at night] is like starring in a silent film. Every passerby pantomim ing for coin, for dope, for a grimy existence adjacent to the rest of the country. (Aged pinup scotch taped to a red chest of rusted drawers. Dead lady, though she remembers model T's and powder blue bathtubs.) I have been crying more everyday, draining evergreen and salt-serum. Knew it from the future, being hard to watch it go. Slowly my body rots from under me, but for now its still keeping time, still sees shadows of the people I claim to know.

0

Aug 6, 2015

Aug 6, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC

Mote

Syrum

Whispered at night, a rapidly tumbling neon triangle stuck between decibles. Thunder drums in fields, the fairy statues on my mother's nightstand. And in the palmy middle, quicksand. Knot at my neck; laughs are pulled from me like petals. Have I loved you, Have I not? [Walking through town at night] is like starring in a silent film. Every passerby pantomim ing for coin, for dope, for a grimy existence adjacent to the rest of the country. (Aged pinup scotch taped to a red chest of rusted drawers. Dead lady, though she remembers model T's and powder blue bathtubs.) I have been crying more everyday, draining evergreen and salt-serum. Knew it from the future, being hard to watch it go. Slowly my body rots from under me, but for now its still keeping time, still sees shadows of the people I claim to know.

10

Searching with a ravenous smile Beyond depravity to find Lustful home in a woman with Pinup soul and centerfold mind. Like prowling wolf under full moon To find in habitats untold Attracted to a body with A chest that shields her heart of gold. Sensuality unrestrained Approaches as innocent knave Seeking that woman who has too Naked Eros towards the brave. Drawn out by libidinous need That only making love can cure His darkness only wants her light Everything about her is pure.

0

Aug 27, 2018

Aug 27, 2018 at 7:54 AM UTC

not_thepoet_hewantstobe

The Lust For Purity

Searching with a ravenous smile Beyond depravity to find Lustful home in a woman with Pinup soul and centerfold mind. Like prowling wolf under full moon To find in habitats untold Attracted to a body with A chest that shields her heart of gold. Sensuality unrestrained Approaches as innocent knave Seeking that woman who has too Naked Eros towards the brave. Drawn out by libidinous need That only making love can cure His darkness only wants her light Everything about her is pure.

16

In this moment before birth, I am turning, a tiny mass of flesh/bones struggling toward the light, my slippery cord unra v e l i n g , my head a mess of milk white fuzz that pushes down and through, my wrinkled eyes sealed, arms fingers legs rubbery red wet. My mother's family waits outside, a Greek chorus drinking black coffee, relieved that the labor is over. Someone marks the time: one-twenty-three-a-m, and my father, half-drunk, plays the guitar in a nightclub somewhere in South Philly. He does not even know, as his callous young fingers interpret "Stardust," that his first son has been born. Someone gives him the news, buys him a drink, while my mother, beautiful serene sedated, smiling like Rita Hayworth in a pinup picture, cradles me with nervous sighs. She is tended now by hospital people who daydream about loved ones, fearful and faraway, points on a fiery map. But I am just another baby in an era when babies are mass produced like munitions. I was conceived sometime in the dawn of a new year, the result of two militant lovers making up while the rest of the world lusted for the blood of boys born twenty years before... a war baby who brings no peace.

0

Jul 9, 2015

Jul 9, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC

vernon-waring

War Baby

In this moment before birth, I am turning, a tiny mass of flesh/bones struggling toward the light, my slippery cord unra v e l i n g , my head a mess of milk white fuzz that pushes down and through, my wrinkled eyes sealed, arms fingers legs rubbery red wet. My mother's family waits outside, a Greek chorus drinking black coffee, relieved that the labor is over. Someone marks the time: one-twenty-three-a-m, and my father, half-drunk, plays the guitar in a nightclub somewhere in South Philly. He does not even know, as his callous young fingers interpret "Stardust," that his first son has been born. Someone gives him the news, buys him a drink, while my mother, beautiful serene sedated, smiling like Rita Hayworth in a pinup picture, cradles me with nervous sighs. She is tended now by hospital people who daydream about loved ones, fearful and faraway, points on a fiery map. But I am just another baby in an era when babies are mass produced like munitions. I was conceived sometime in the dawn of a new year, the result of two militant lovers making up while the rest of the world lusted for the blood of boys born twenty years before... a war baby who brings no peace.

49

Many pinup models are also photographers, just as many painters of pin up art were also women

0

Aug 30, 2018

Aug 30, 2018 at 4:14 PM UTC

johnny-noiπ

women's **** art

Many pinup models are also photographers, just as many painters of pin up art were also women

4

times were so innocent that there were places w/ names like Paper Dolls, Pinup World & Centerfolds, where one could rub flesh w/ the actual **** stars who later became performance artists; art imitating life imitating **** imitating art as real **** real art, real life, not an imitation

0

Aug 17, 2018

Aug 17, 2018 at 8:50 PM UTC

johnny-noiπ

reality isn't innocent

times were so innocent that there were places w/ names like Paper Dolls, Pinup World & Centerfolds, where one could rub flesh w/ the actual **** stars who later became performance artists; art imitating life imitating **** imitating art as real **** real art, real life, not an imitation

11

See! See! See the mule as she trots below the bars, carrying the weight of the unicorn on her shoulders Look at how only pills find their way into her cotton filled stomach On the stage where she holds the light that shines upon the fairest of them all So you can watch the princess in the tower, And notice her cries from the sapphires that fall down her bony cheek Why don't you spy the masses of she-demons that weep acid over the screen which erodes the paper thin illusions Spotted illusions, that flash like circus lights which find their eyes upon the pinup doll who struts high up on a tightrope in the air When the mule stares from the bottom of the stage, is it the thinness of the waist or the wire she finds herself in envy with? Hear! Hear! Hear how the pig squeals when they ignore her wishes to eat from an empty trough Listen to her scream for the bones that creak when she moves a little too much Can she overhear the way they speak of her size, as if there's a prize for claiming the biggest pumpkin When she tunes in to the radio and hears them praise the waists of corpses in their seats made of lost teenage palates Then they will make out the subtle sawing and snips where she finds herself cutting off the undesired fat that's lingered for too long Wasn't she warned that it isn't safe to use a plastic knife to cut off a muffin top? Speak! Speak! Speak of what you want to see when you look in the carnival mirror that distorts your shape in all the desired places Then we can **** up to the girls with halos that fit their size 00 waist, And talk of chopstick legs with an appetite that follows, So you can brag about how you only eat one at a time In what manner is it necessary that you chat instead of chew, to distract from your untouched plates! You ramble on and on about the space that satiates your hunger for beauty The beauty that has destroyed what I loved about you When I whisper to myself in the bathroom mirror so full of nothingness So full... But I'll still eat the last of the candy in the bag: Orange bottles that linger my dreams above my lips, Out of reach, And out of sight.

0

Sep 12, 2024

Sep 12, 2024 at 12:12 PM UTC

Ghoskie

Eat No Evil

See! See! See the mule as she trots below the bars, carrying the weight of the unicorn on her shoulders Look at how only pills find their way into her cotton filled stomach On the stage where she holds the light that shines upon the fairest of them all So you can watch the princess in the tower, And notice her cries from the sapphires that fall down her bony cheek Why don't you spy the masses of she-demons that weep acid over the screen which erodes the paper thin illusions Spotted illusions, that flash like circus lights which find their eyes upon the pinup doll who struts high up on a tightrope in the air When the mule stares from the bottom of the stage, is it the thinness of the waist or the wire she finds herself in envy with? Hear! Hear! Hear how the pig squeals when they ignore her wishes to eat from an empty trough Listen to her scream for the bones that creak when she moves a little too much Can she overhear the way they speak of her size, as if there's a prize for claiming the biggest pumpkin When she tunes in to the radio and hears them praise the waists of corpses in their seats made of lost teenage palates Then they will make out the subtle sawing and snips where she finds herself cutting off the undesired fat that's lingered for too long Wasn't she warned that it isn't safe to use a plastic knife to cut off a muffin top? Speak! Speak! Speak of what you want to see when you look in the carnival mirror that distorts your shape in all the desired places Then we can **** up to the girls with halos that fit their size 00 waist, And talk of chopstick legs with an appetite that follows, So you can brag about how you only eat one at a time In what manner is it necessary that you chat instead of chew, to distract from your untouched plates! You ramble on and on about the space that satiates your hunger for beauty The beauty that has destroyed what I loved about you When I whisper to myself in the bathroom mirror so full of nothingness So full... But I'll still eat the last of the candy in the bag: Orange bottles that linger my dreams above my lips, Out of reach, And out of sight.

27