Audio File:  https://soundcloud.com/prttybrdpoetry/i-thought-i-could-swim-until-you-stopped-me-from-drowning

in the middle of my silent days
you ran interference through thoughts whose only purpose
was to run interference through
anything good
or possibly good
that made its way into the rotation
of random pain
keeping me rooted firmly
on the backhand of a smile

snapped in place like the snapping of
my bra in the hands of middle school
boys that found it awkward to walk
when my puberty
kick-started theirs

so, 'SNAP'
there goes my dignity in that
seemingly innocent violation
that no one ever calls by name
where silence gives them permission
to make fun of my already mortifying
body changes that
took me from innocent and invisible
and ****** me into the spotlight so no one would notice
the way they were mortified
with their own reactions to my puberty

I hid behind oversized sweaters and sarcasm
never looked a boy in the eye
stopped talking
so maybe I could
pretend I was invisible and happy
or at least not naked
beneath these people who stole from me
without repercussions...

it lingers...

fast forward
through being made painfully aware that a size 10 was massive compared
to all my size 5 friends
but they were 5'2" not almost 5'8"
they still looked like a board
not a pinup girl from old-timey calendars
but fat is fat wherever it happens to land under thin skin
collecting into silent reservoirs
of self-loathing ammunition...

it lingers...

fast forward
through the first time 'no' held no meaning
shocked into silence and tears
still whispering... please...don't
as words were less weapons and more entrapment
where a body betrays in unwanted reactions
used as proof against my truth
or my perception of truth
or...it must be true because if I
really didn't want it...
but fear and panic can garner the same
physical responses as passion
and it would be too many years before I knew that...

it lingers...

fast forward
to the last time I knew I was beautiful
and the only time I ever let a friend
convince me that going home with these guys was ok
she wanted company and
she was my ride
she never did get lucky

I...
got a cracked sternum where his chin held me down
I kept my voice this time
but the music was so loud
my words remained unheard
no still held no meaning
my wrist bruised in his hand
one hand frantically stretching clothes out of the way
while my free hand struggled frantically
to keep those same clothes at my waist
but...
spandex is unkind on so many levels

somewhere in this fight with his
knees bruising my calves into position
he was thoughtful enough to
somehow, someway
utilize a ******, whose wrapper
never made into the trash
I know this as I followed my friend's
gaze first to the shiny torn package
then twist into what looked like pride
and on the way home
before the bruises turned purple
I told her... and she laughed

it lingers...

she said if that were true
and he stopped to put on a ******
why didn't I escape his hold
but his grip never changed
and when he took those 3 seconds
to rip it open with his teeth...
I was trying to wriggle free and keep my shorts up
and scream over music playing way too loud
I couldn't look at her
or show her the bruises when they appeared
I shouldn't have to prove myself to a friend
I lost more than my dignity
on my 21st birthday...

it lingers...

But at least I knew I didn't deserve it...
that time
but if I wasn't pretty or thin or
anything remotely attractive
maybe it would never happen again
but...

fast forward
to wisdom earned and extra curves
but hating oneself never diminishes
without draining that pool of self-loathing

so, fast forward
present-day and my mom's voice mocks my dreams
she always told me that, when they care,
what I look like doesn't matter
but...

she never mentioned what would happen
if I was the one who didn't care
I learned that when I can't see past
my incessant imperfections
that I'd never believe anyone would notice
when I try to drown myself
in that pool of past truths
that my withdrawal into the
abyss of pain
could possibly ever matter
if it doesn't even matter to me
but...

it lingers...

and every time I hide from the world
masking my pain with silence
stepping out of the way trying not to
burden people with my shame and weakness
I still cannot fathom
if when the people that crawl into my skin
ripping my truth into that pool of lies
can't be bothered noticing my silence
searching for a safe-enough distance
then, how could... why would... anyone else

See,
I've grown accustomed to not mattering
to myself
trained into the seeming safety of silence
where I grate my self-esteem
on the very invisibility I had longed for
so many years ago

I care so much
but it never makes sense
when someone cares enough to notice anything I do,
especially when I'm trapped in my own darkness
but to bring it to my attention is so rare
that I find myself absolutely perplexed

I don't know what it's like to be seen
or... I didn't
but...
you saw me
you saw my distance
and tried to understand my pain
you told me I changed
and answered when I asked you
to tell me how

I am invisible
it's how I cope with heartache and broken trust
disappointment and pain
unfortunately, it's also how I cope
with personal joy and
anything that might resemble pride

I feel, but the invisibility...
it lingers...

so, today...
when in the middle of my silent days
or weeks or who knows how long
I've been drowning in the abyss in slow motion...
today, you ran interference through thoughts
whose only purpose
was to run interference through
anything good
or possibly good
that made its way into the rotation
of random pain
keeping me rooted firmly
on the backhand of a smile

your honesty, reflecting the truth that
I'm likely the only one who
actually doesn't notice my own withdrawal into isolation
was as surprising as that first
snapping of my bra
but I found my voice enough
to apologize for the shame I didn't earn
yet so freely project onto everyone
touched by the perception of invisibility
in which I hide
but you saw me
and proved I am not invisible
you cared enough to notice
and...

it lingers

Bubble and pop
sweet baby darling
blow
*******, *****
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.

*******, 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?

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,
*****-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.

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
******'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).

I'm daydream of a pinup [                ], [     ];
           army b/c I'm tired of young
guys dying [   ];   for billions to go
into the pockets      of billionaires;
I'm dreaming of a       beauty queen nation  
                                   b/c women [            ]
                                 can be serious *******
when they want to be;
mothers are ruthless;
[            ],            [           ] men w/
guns & ****;         sports is a con;
politics an openly lucrative
prostitution racket; I'm dreaming
of Miss America                as President b/c
[                                    ]  what else is there?

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.

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

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.

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

I didn't  ge    t in trouble
when I took all the red, pink
& orange crayons & went off
on my own to chew the pink
& draw with the red; using the
orange to make the two dots
& smearing chewed wet pink
between the red stick legs;

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.

Shawn mumbles in her sleep about cheerleaders and toilet slaves,
******* her wormhole at an ancient ambient wedding—
Edna in her seamed stockings disguised as a pinup,
Reciting short ****** prayers, her knickers down—
Exciting as ice cream there is only one flavor—
Shawn mumbling in her sleep & ******* her wormhole—
A mother’s ***** is sweeter than ice cream,
As exciting as ice cream, unforgettable as a perfect pearl
Her punctuated perspective; her ocean of body hair,
Her cat sculpted of ****** wood; her nurse’s degree,
My short radio fiction, Edna spanking Rabindraneth—
Lizzie and Marilyn walking in stilettos in the sand,
Her diamond encrusted bra straps,
Time traveling to the present January,
Ella eating out the blonde, not just any hippie
Her pearls glistening in the night, star struck in a world of wonder—showing herself to me and realizing my dreams in the vacuum of sleep her mother doing yoga with an *** the size of a watermelon as delicious as spring breezes off the brown river of her European charm, her restroom orthodox,
Plastic Japanese women listening to the Beatles,
It’s no crime that she’s heir to a philosophy that’s cool and calm—
Cheerleaders and toilet slaves know there is only one Paradise
But many Hells, one for each eye, her soul’s twin, Diana, and freedom—if you take one teenaged girl you have to take them all, teenage girls travel in sweeping swarms of Realism,
Old tongues aligned with their *******
Barbie’s Jewish roots wasted in Japan—
Swedish grandmothers weekend wives—
Tender Victorian feet of tomorrow thinking before they speak instinctively, the math subconscious, his ugly Lebanese sister’s boat my salvation—
Minimalism proving impractical in a Baroque Age—
We must choose our blue angels miraculously
Gorgeous Russian ****** in the underground—
Skinny blonde rednecks turned urban hipsters,
not just any blonde or infantile Japanese woman, a ******’s familiar face Russian rock and roll lover inevitably naked and insane Russian girls tasting like apples, Edna and Shawn partying on the beach with an Israeli girl;
Ella showing the Japanese girl to the toilet dreaming of crows,
Painting her four walls, showing ******’s sister strangled with her own pantyhose on film her deepest thoughts springing to hellish life—at the last minute she runs in and blows me a Cinderella kiss—
I live in the two worlds of her heart’s unknown origins,
Her secret gray mansion an Indian Jewish mother I know well,
His ugly Lebanese sister’s boat my salvation—
On that fine day when I kissed you I felt ten feet tall
But then couldn’t fit through the door
So I’m going to kiss you again so I can feel small enough
To walk in and kiss you again and burst through the ceiling like a jet through the atmosphere and once in the sky
I’ll write your name in letters twenty feet high—
Just to tell you I don’t think I could live another day
Without you and yet here it’s another day—
Where have I been in hell with Orpheus
And Satan’s handmaid but I want to get back to the airplane
With you in my arms soaring around the sun—
Dedalus has nothing on me, Apollo knows all I want to know is what the Delphic oracle said to you when u had me in your Egyptian bed
God the Father giving me head on his hands & knees
I will take ur your hand to wed—
I’m feeling lucky, I don’t even know why,
Could it be because I just saw a ghost dancing across the room
that comes as no surprise any day or any time—
The poet prays to Euclid’s golden cube,
Silver and magnetic, the mother of all elements
Spits them from her sphincter like her mother before her—
The minimalist chaos of complexity the future of our rhythms and reflections—petite mother of misty, golden gasses
Glassed into a baroque dialogue,
Moliere mystified, supple Byzantine flesh,
Botticelli and all things that start as ideas,
Art starting with things and turning them into ideas,
Stripping the flesh from her back,
Her mystical heritage seeing the world from inside a  
western missionary smoking dope from a mother’s ***,
My mother’s slippery genius no useless thing
Barbara’s *** smelling like musty pantyhose;
From arte povera to minimalism,
I would make love to her for money, a lot of money,
Her spindly southern feet bare in strappy flats—
Minimalism is not simple, my Anima is not an animal

Nostalgic kind of love
The kind that hurts kinda nice
In the sweet places

It feels old and familiar
Worn out
It doesn’t keep you warm anymore
But you love it for its wrinkles and holes

Sugar sweet
Like a pinup girls pouty lip
In a magazine from the 40s

Something is wrong with it
But it looks nice

And now
On quiet nights
It comes to you
Unexpected

‘I hope I’m welcome’ it says
As it seduces my psyche
As it takes my cheek in its palm
As it looks into my eyes and soothes the pain that it brings.

The most important thing in the world
is in Europe. In France, Charles Charles
and Charles Charles Ambassadors have begun.
Angola, ****** Pascal 2. The great Kudo-***,
the first ****** and the last one comes to heal.
The campaign is more important than
all the lessons, so the situation is different.
O Pedro Romano Mono Lisses 3 or KORDO,
through a local pioneer or his little one, without
the word "Torah". Charles de Gaulle, April 814,
742-28, Roche Charlotte, 1768, 768 Rhe, 768
774 and 800, Emperor Western Europe, society.
Especially in Europe, Charles Chats in "European
****** and Europe"; "Asian Europe". The Roman
Empire is in Rome, Rome, Rome, ******
and Rome. The custom is over, that's the Nevada
problem. Like Carlos, Rome or two languages,
children are one. Even in the films of the Orthodox Church,
there are ****** and different forms. This author
is for the bible of love. This event took place
in Rome in 1054 in Rome. Henry ******
and Henry Elfin Wrong of 814, January 1414,
for example, 146, and castle speed.
They are like outside, or they are like hair.
Of course, these books are suspicious.
In addition, as followers in Tavray putas yhenwa,
in 1414, Viviida was born in Cuneo. For example,
I expressed confidence in Terra Ellen Lloyd
and joined a program at the Museum Society
****** and... A girl shows me her Pippins,
her Greek ****** and Latvians or her story,
a book, a book and some books. On mailing lists,
July 1467-1540, "Yes." It's about worrying
about starting. In the Gospel of Luke, in the draft
of Irresmus, faith, women, 1534, Archbishop
of Clinton, 12, 7237 in the Benedictine faith,
church, day ****** and night. He was born
at the University of Montpellier, paying homage
to the members of his family. In 1532, two
Western believers, who received $ 40,000
from the doctors, hid their lions but were not
admitted to the New York Hospital in 1534.
Ezra, well, lion Sebastian, in this book, Erasmus
Erasmus. Read MP 1532 or French. Name,
Alpha Romeo and Nike Ampero, or first,
Ripples, Pinup or Grace. In Gregory 13, "Phones,
brochures, leaflets and pamphlets",
such as "salads" or "prophecies"

DT:
Of ONE thing I must say that I am aware:
A marriage can be any person's cross to bear.
So that is why I put my trust in laissez faire.
And that’s how I survive.

My first wife frowned on my philandering.
I said that paparazzi were just slandering.
No way! she said. I was meandering.
And that's how I survive.

The situation then grew hairier.
And since there was no way to bury her,
I merely said, "I'll just unmarry her."
And that's how I survive.

There was a gal that I was with when I got caught.
In 1993 we tied the knot.
I think she had a certain liking for my yacht.
And that's how I survive.

My second marriage started out to be a blast.
But everybody knows that it didn't last.
Divorce for me was just a rebroadcast.
And that's how I survive.

Then I met this gorgeous pinup girl.
Talk about a beauty! Yes, a real pearl!
I thought that I should give this one a whirl.
And that's how I survive.

But everybody knows that a wedding ring
Won't STOP me if I feel I want to have a fling.
Fidelity is not a deal to which I cling.
And that's how I survive.

How long this one will last, well, no one knows.
Every marriage has both its highs and lows.
My wife's aware of what she can and can't disclose.
And that's how I survive.

I’ve a special tool, which--I must say--
Helps me keep both friends and foes at bay.
It happens to be called an NDA.°
And that’s how I survive.
Yes, that’s…how…I…survive.

-by Bob B (2-4-25)

°non-disclosure agreement