"pullover" poems
Today inspiration came in the form of a watermelon seed.
I was sitting on the couch
as per usual
and eating watermelon chunks
with my fingers.
I was doing nothing else productive.
I was eating
and being ugly
in my baggy black pullover
and my green pajama pants.
I thought about
how gross I would look
if anyone were to catch me
as I chewed on a mouthful of watermelon
and tried not to choke on the seeds.
I shamelessly licked the watermelon juice from my fingers.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 12:24 AM UTC
In the supermarket airport
There are arrivals every day.
The departures in your trolley
Come to you from far away.
Those brightly coloured vegetables
Have sat around for days
In what we’re told are
such hygienic backroom bays.
They’re obviously picked and packed by well paid sprites and elves!
Then magically appear on your supermarket shelves.
Here every carrot is straight and clean
And every lettuce crisply curled
Then gassed in plastic packets
That are filling up our world!
Take a glance inside your trolley
And if what I say is true
Then I guarantee the food within
Has seen more of the world than you.
Like the picture on the packet
Of your frozen ready meal
The colour of this far flown food is great
The taste experience, surreal.
Those ripe tomatoes in their reddest skins
We should dye brown, to match their taste
Those vivid orange carrots are a mystery of flavour-
What a waste!
A plate of vibrant promising hue
Can taste of packaging and glue.
The supermarket tells you you’re in clover
But its goods have all the texture of an old pullover.
Your supermarket says that it is catering for you
But if you’re honest do you really think that’s true?
If you don’t then there is something you can do.
At the supermarket airport
All the money’s in departures
So put that trolley back
And just depart.
If you're wanting to be vocal
Then shop seasonal and local
And hit these psuedo airports at their heart.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 6:57 AM UTC
it's simple really, nostalgia is buried in a melody
the same way humans are put in coffins--
deliberately heart-wrenching, a science.
an old transistor radio climbs lazily in the background,
buzzing, humming but then hear it--
blank stares as the road carries on, gradually,
slow mascara rivulets kiss cheeks like the intimacy long forgotten only to come rushing back--
songs that we said were ours were never ours to have,
an old familiar lyric that we claimed to spell destiny,
auditory memories that taunt and torture:
the chorus only instigates barbed thorns to lonesome hearts,
major chords aren't happy,
but cause discordance--
clenched fists on the steering wheel, you must pullover--
you can't pause or rewind, you can't stop--
yes, change the channel--
but the music still plays, and the riffs hang in your head,
remembered and reminisced over static--
but nothing is white noise when the final notes linger on your auditory palette,
the taste like the stare of a cold gravestone...
but even colder still,
the empty seat next to you.
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 8:24 PM UTC
There are boys that cry,
There are girls who have dry eyes.
There are boys that dance or play volleyball,
There are girls that wrestle or play football.
There are boys who drive VW Bugs,
There are girls that drive trucks.
There are boys that bake,
There are girls that shred.
There are boys that like the Notebook,
There are girls that like Transformers.
There are boys that are romantics at heart, looking for love,
There are girls that aren't into flowers or love songs.
There are boys with hair to their knees,
There are girls with shaved heads.
There are boys with diaries and journals full of memories,
There are girls who have no desire to write down all the details.
There are boys with names like Aubry,
There are girls with names like Sam.
There are boys with insecurities about their bodies,
There are girls who don't weigh themselves ever.
There are boys with eating disorders,
There are girls who work out for the ideal 6 pack.
There are boys that prep endlessly for a date,
There are girls who take 5 minutes to get out the door.
There are tidy, neat boys,
There are messy, whirlwind girls.
There are boys in dresses,
There are girls in baggy jeans and a pullover.
There are boys who shop endlessly,
There are girls who can't stand the mall.
There are boys that talk about their emotions,
There are girls who would rather not.
There are boys that look after the kids,
There are girls that work full-time.
There are boys who are nurses,
There are girls who are engineers.
There are boys who cook,
There are girls that change the oil in the car.
There are boys who are complacent and subordinate,
There are girls who are dominant and overpowering.
There are boys with no desire to get it in on the first date,
And there are some girls who wouldn't mind if they do.
And those are all okay. Gender stereotyping only limits what you can and can't do. Let the boys cry and write poetry and eat chocolate when they're sad and talk about their feelings. Let the girls be aggressive and wrestle their buddies and play ball and drive sports cars. Let people do as they please. You're born as you a are, you can't decide what gender you are. You can decide what you do with your gender though, or rather what it won't keep you from doing. Your gender is only an aspect of who you are, don't let it dictate your actions to appease a society that has deemed what is and is not okay for you to do simply because you're either a guy or girl.
There are boys and girls that can grow up to be what they please, do as they wish and speak as they will. Don't be the one to tell them otherwise.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 1:00 AM UTC
Dear Alyssa,
I am trying to say your name, but it is so foreign to me I cannot believe I once called it my own. It is stiff and uncomfortable, and sticky and sad. I cringe every time I hear it, it was never my home.
But I will never not envy the fact that our mother handcrafted it for you while Avery was never touched by her beauty. When you think beauty, I know the only thing you think of is Montana Walker. The girl in your English class with the freckle by her smile who plays chess with you at lunch. But when your father thinks beauty, Alyssa is still his first thought.
Dear Alyssa,
When you were in sixth grade, you dreamt about me. I wore a pullover hoodie and a backwards hat with one arm slung around Montana's shoulders. You were afraid to touch her, but me, I wasn't intimidated by her. She was quiet and tall, I was taller and loud, my chest was open and breathed proud. You never believed you would get there, and you aren't. I am miles away from loud. I am unable to speak up for you. Even when I was called a ****** my first day of public high school. Even when I was called a ******* ****** *** **** by a member of our own community, someone who shares so much of our journey. I didn't speak up for you or me. I'm sorry.
Dear Alyssa,
I'm sorry I tried to tear you open to see if I was hiding underneath. I'm sorry. I was not underneath. This is no woman's body because it belongs to me. I was not underneath.
Dear Alyssa,
Mom and dad are right. You are beauty. You are pretty and feminine and sweet. Alyssa, you are the prettiest boy you'll ever meet, because frankly, there is no girl I used to be. We are inherently male because we are supposed to be.
**** biology.
**** transphobic members of the LGBT community.
**** that at 15, you've reached half a trans* person's life expectancy.
**** that you will never be allowed to join the military.
**** the life that they want you to lead.
You are me.
You are the boy I used to be.
Dear Alyssa,
I'm sorry.
Sincerely yours
P.S. I should've loved you more.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 12:46 AM UTC
cant see the road ahead
best pullover
enjoy a picnic
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 11:56 PM UTC
*You remind me of a
crayon box. And the
colours of purple and
blue. The colours of
sunsets found inside a
mango peel and the
shades of green in your
eyes before you take the mango
peel off and see it from inside.
And when you wear that
green pullover of yours
that reminds me of leprechauns
and four leaf clovers. I
know this might sound crazy
but darling its oh so true.
Orange and brown look
good on you too. Your
cheeks look like strawberry
pink when they freeze from
winters cold breeze. You
also remind me of my favorite
black crayon that i never
let go of during every single
art class. Deep mysterious
and full of secrets and stories
to be told. You remind me
of a crayon box because
you hold more beautiful colours
than any rainbow holds.
And that's why i smile every
time i touch my little crayola
crayon box because it always
brings me thoughts of you* ~
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 7:19 AM UTC
takin the load down the dirt road,
thinkin about the reggae girl me once loved,
boy did i like the way she rubbed,
i notice me rasta themed pants had a little bump,
me third leg was feelin a little stiff,
i decided to light me a little splif,
me started to rub thee bumb in me pant,
no way i was bout to stop, no way, no chance,
i feel a sensation, me son is Croatian,
me lost control of me rig and next ting ya kno,
me in the ditch wit at sticky hand,
me **** leg cost me 1900.00 annually in
insurance. me learned dat me dont
have much indurance. da lesson to be
learned is if your feeling an itch on ya
**** leg, pullover because if ya dont
you be broke as a reggae boy lost at sea
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 11:47 AM UTC
The placenta of poetry.
At 25
still young and arrogant
but with some modesty creeping in
more fully fledged
in the void's vale
of dropping foundation blocks
into pools of quicksand
tenements are always prey
to vulnerabilities of one kind
or other
if someone sneeze
I am uncomfortably cold
one sleeve of my pullover
is rolled up above the elbow -
it is threadbare!
Jul 15, 2010
Jul 15, 2010 at 12:43 AM UTC
My companion has no clothes to speak of -
no odours, no form, only shape from being
born from flat ground - transparent in the round;
an open guide that pulls you from the inside
to a new plane not seen before - straight
thro' any solid door; where is this place
I've been escorted to? Encouraged and
gently led a long way above my head
seems familiar a a long time ago - the pace
of life here is very slow, timeless
airless, a pale hue - my Fair Isle pullover
must be a clue; seem smaller now
everyone taller just as ghostly friends dance
It appears that I've been given a second chance
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 3:07 PM UTC
The last thing i remembered
Was falling asleep on you.
It started with us talking in bed,
You were still in your white cap and i was still in my shoes.
And vaguely but imprinted in my mind,
i recall you taking off your pullover,
Putting on a plain shirt,
My eyes, i tried to cover.
But to see your arms, your neck
Sculpted with veins,
I know you're ontological,
Despite your occasional back pains.
Then you slipped under the sheets next to me, stared into my eyes and said:
"To see you last before i close my eyes,
to see you first before the sunrise,
To hold you in my arms this way,
Tell me, is it with me will you stay?"
I moved my head onto his chest
Your breathing was steady, but loud and bold.
And on your heart, my hand did rest,
My breathing, did i surprisingly hold.
"With you, I'll be, forever and always,
To sleep to your voice like a lullaby,
To wake up to it like an alarm on days,
To be your warm hellos and good goodbyes."
I feel your chin nod against my head,
Your exhale makes a few hair strands fly.
Before we knew it, we fell asleep to each other,
And we didn't even have to try.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 11:32 AM UTC
An artistically woven
turquoise woolen
pullover made
out of the finest
moher fabric
made my day.
Made for you,
to be caressed
and cherished
as a perfect
garment.
It looked so good
on you, my darling!
Rainbow colors always
bring me happiness and
I gently touch you,
feeling already safe
as a deer in a flowering
forest; within narcotically
scented alluring hug, we
embrace again, tightly,
you and me, entwined.
Whiffed winds melody
played through tall pine
tree tops as a flute song
swaying branches. It seemed
as they are affirming our walk
along the shore, where the river
meets an ocean, hand in hand,
peacefully.
And, yet, every time the
strong cool breeze exposes
your magnificent masculine
figure in that woolen top,
my coolness faints into the
void and dissolves itself.
Our urge emerges!
I feel your fingertips touch
as a passionate flame dance
over my face, you turn my
head up toward your loving
gaze, wanting it so much,
slightly pulling me up
then burning my lips.
Our hurried steps are heard,
echoing as a rushed tempo
on the salty path, fresh air
lingers around us, leading
us to our charming summer
suite, to undress. And love.
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 8:54 AM UTC
there is a certain beauty, an abundant kind of pleasure that comes with death
I know of the pain you went through, and I'll say your name until others know too.
Christina.
You liked unicorns and rap music, dressing up all fancy with gaudy rings and gold necklaces and wet n wild lip gloss.
Christina.
I know you were a practical joker. One time you smeared peanut butter on a pair of mom's underwear and showed it to her boyfriend. I can remember you snickering the whole way there.
Christina.
I know it felt horrible to confide in someone who is supposed to protect you and have them do the opposite. you were only a little girl. I wish I could time travel, so I could come and hold you and run my fingers through your soft blonde hair.
Christina.
Pregnant at 15. When I was 15, I was taking drivers training and learning how to come into my own. You had a child to think of before you even got a license to drive a vehicle.
Christina.
I remember you getting into a fight with mom and her telling you that she was going to take all of your Christmas presents back.
Christina.
If blood really is thicker than water, who was it that left you there in that crack house in Detroit?
we have our assumptions.
For someone who carried so much pain and ugly things in their heart, you sure did spread so much love and light.
Christina, my sister.
Christina, grandma's favorite.
Christina, the girl gangster who wore a unicorn pullover.
I love you, and I'm happy that you don't have to put up with the pain this life brought you.
But I'd be lying if I said I'd rather have you there than here with me.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 11:27 PM UTC
She used to smile for all the right reasons
But now it's not only at the irony
When another thousand pound straw is laid across her back
And another unspoken slight wipes it off her face
Her eyes used to sparkle
But that green has faded to gray
Up close you can see it
She's not the same anymore
She smiled and her whole face lit up
Now it's a faint turn at the corner of her mouth
She straightened her hair every day
Now it’s pony-tailing seven step and half-kids to school
Now it’s sitting at home
She was bullied into “place”
He’s losing his shape
And everyone is going crazy
Everyone is fading into Mom-jeans and pullover hoodies
Silent tables
This was never what eating dinner as a family was supposed to look like.
She doesn’t like cooking
But she learned **** quick.
A glance at their marriage makes her stomach turn sick
He started smoking again
Food on the table
*** in bed
She’s saving her money
And getting ready to leave
But this time...
Tailing half as many kids behind
Aug 16, 2018
Aug 16, 2018 at 11:34 AM UTC
Your pullover
Oversized shirts
That toy
The fake daisies
This bag
Every letters
Our poloraids
That spongebob mug
Can we bring back what's lost?
The stains on the bed
The way you dry my hair
How you curse me for being naive
The way you stroke my hair
When your hands land on my waist
The way we spoke the same words
And the way your face light up when you're happy
Are you happy now? What are you doing now?
It's the ache
The pain,
The price of being a "bad" guy
The loss
The leaving
The emptiness that got left behind
But no, we can't bring back people who doesn't even try
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 6:44 AM UTC
The old woman
was lying
on the path
from her
ground floor flat
along Harper Road
when you and Helen
walked by
on your way
from the shop
with your penny drinks
you both ran to her
and she said she’d fallen
so Helen
ran across
to the surgery
on the other side
of the road
while you knelt
by the woman
placing your
short sleeved pullover
under her head
you’re a good boy
she said
but you’ll have blood on it now
don’t matter
you said
you stroked her head
and pushed
her grey hair
out of her white blue eyes
when Helen returned
with a doctor
he examined
the old woman
and said
he had called
an ambulance
Helen stood
next to you
her eyes tearful
her hand
touching yours
the woman said
thank you both
I don’t know
what I’d have done
if you hadn’t come along
it’s the least we could do
Helen said
you waited
until the ambulance came
and took her away
and disappeared
off along Harper Road
look at your pullover
Helen said
it’s got blood on it
don’t matter
gives it colour
you replied
anyway Mum’ll wash it out
she gazed at you
through her thick lens
her eyes awash
with tears
her small hand
still in yours
the path
from the old lady’s flat
had a small stain
of dark red
where blood had seeped
where she’d laid her head
a bit like an abstract
pavement artist’s work
you said
the white stone canvas
with that touch of red.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 2:53 AM UTC
Janice met you
as you walked
across the bombsite
from the New Kent Road
to Meadow Row
you watched
as she trod
carefully over
bricks and stones
some half buried
under the settled
earth and mixed brick
her hands held out
like some tight-rope walker
and she saw you
and smiled
and said
Gran said I can come out
if I’m with you
so I came looking for you
and here you are
yes
you said
my usual place
amongst many
she stopped
where the ground
was even
and held her hands
in front of her
holding a small bag
you looked at her
in her red beret
and grey coat
her black shoes
and white socks
and she said
where are we going?
you looked at her bag
and said
what’s in the bag?
a small handkerchief
and purse
with six pence
and a penny
and a bar of chocolate
we can share
she said
where are we going?
she repeated
where do you
want to go?
Waterloo
to watch the trains?
she said
I know you like them
ok
you said
and you both
headed back
to the bus stop
on the New Kent Road
and stood there
waiting for the bus
she in her red beret
and coat
and you
in your jeans
and pullover
with the wiggly pattern
and she opened
her bag
and took out
the bar of chocolate
and broke it
in two
one for her
and one for you
wrapped in
its silver paper
and purple cover
just like two grown ups
each giving
to their lover.
Nov 18, 2012
Nov 18, 2012 at 7:50 AM UTC
Get in the car, don't look back
We'll have the greatest adventure
written in my map
Pullover in this empty highway
let's count the stars
and get drunk on every sip of wine
In a three-am snoring sun,
hold my hand as we jump
in this fresh water lake
both wishing we could stop time
Don't find a shelter
when the world gets mad
grab my hand and twirl me
as the clouds cry endlessly,
up in the sky
Forget what's behind,
there's more to seek
in my written map
hold tight and together,
let's run off to the wilds
(a.k)
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
its a
post apocalyptic,
polyurethane
pullover
party.
we've got our
sighs of relief,
stop signs,
superficial sorrows.
so please let us
rest our heads,
righteously
railing against
roaring wrongdoings.
its our
right as
rolling ghosts
ruining
really rare
riots.
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 11:21 AM UTC
Fay walks out
of the flat
onto the
red brick and
grey concrete
balcony
her father's
angry words
in her ears
and her head
his hand mark
on her thigh
red throbbing
making cry
it's Sunday
below her
the empty
tarmac Square
pigeons there
no one else
excepting
the milkman
with his horse
and milk cart
and bottles
rattling
flats all round
opposite
and beside
she sees it
watery
as from a
goldfish bowl
she gently
rubs her thigh
all because
she didn't
know the Creed
in Latin
all way through
of the mass
the strict nuns
at her school
had told him
of this fact
some one moves
on the Square
she watches
young Baruch
with brown hair
grey pullover
and blue jeans
walk along
holding his
catapult
she gazes
he looks up
waves to her
come on down
he beckons
mouthing words
she wonders
if she should
her father
doesn't like
the Jew boy
stay away
from the Jew
he tells her
she waves back
at Baruch
should she go?
she likes him
makes her laugh
tells her things
she goes down
the stairway
rushes down
excited
she feels safe
with Baruch
her fears leave
disappear
where are you
going to?
she asks him
any where
I want to
he replies
the whole world's
my oyster
she smiles now
the red thigh
still throbbing
can I come?
she asks him
if you like
what about
your old man
won't he mind?
she stares at
hazel eyes
and brown hair
'spect he will
she replies
she shows him
her red thigh
what's that for?
Baruch asks
not knowing
all of the
Latin Creed
she mutters
is that all?
does God care?
Baruch asks
I don't know
Fay replies
looking up
at the flat
let's go then
adventure
beckons us
he tells her
they walk off
down the slope
cross the road
then walk up
Meadow Row
quietly
to the site
of bombed out
wrecked houses
and remains
he picks up
small round stones
loads up his
catapult
flies at cans
or bottles
left behind
by drunkards
she watching
as the sound
echoes loud
in the air
breaking in
her Sabbath
smashing glass
crashing cans
your go now
he tells her
handing her
his weapon
the wooden
catapult
and a stone
she fires
at a can
BANG it echoes
a voice shouts
IT'S SUNDAY
TIME OF REST
GO AWAY
Baruch smiles
best be off
and they walk
on to the
New Kent Road
he holding
her thin hand
she thinking
about her
father's rage
Baruch thinks
of her hand
warm and soft
and looks out
for cowboys
the bad guys
ambushing
from corners
of this new
Dodge City
she feels safe
holding hands
12 years old
as is he
as they walk
their own new
London Town
Dodge City.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 2:30 AM UTC
Layer by layer,
a support system,
and safety coverage,
much like
an encouraging armour.
I piled them on,
layer by layer.
Coloured cream,
every inch,
every corner,
explored by the wisp of a soft brush,
caressing and comforting.
Stroke by stroke,
black ink on tapered brushes,
forms a full pair,
and prominent curls that
softly flutters.
Such lovely coyness.
Stroke by stroke,
a staining motion,
softly presses,
while trailing a curved path
with eyes lowered.
**Truly,
the cheapest thrill a woman has.**
Hands running through,
pulling yet gentle,
of soft brown curls.
A spritz from a glass vial,
neck daintily stretched,
eyes contently shut.
The light fragrance flirts in the air,
a flowery scent,
musky and sweet.
An over-sized pullover,
cotton hides luscious curves,
drawing eyes to every inch of
skin exposed.
A shiver contained,
from the ruffling of the material,
and intense flames behind watching eyes.
A deep intake of air,
eyes meeting through the mirror.
As though gears clicked into place,
an indulgent smile displays.
"Come here," he said.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
Your snowflake sense takes over
You still can't let go of this pullover
Winter, my dear, your coldness do not ceases
petrified each time that my glance moves towards you
Are you always this insensible, dear mine?
Or is it just to catch up my attention
as the flowers that aren't born on your lips
You will not flower your way into my heart again
Enviable guts you must have
to play summer while
frivolous voices consume you inside
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 8:10 AM UTC
as it rains i am reminded
of the comfort i felt in the fall
sweeping leaves off the porch
my mind was at ease and the clouds
wrapped around the sun
like my pullover sweater
the trees lost their verdure
but not their beauty
i am ready for what lies ahead
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 9:41 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Why Do Widows Give Me Their Late Husbands’ Clothes?
When old men die their widows give me their clothes
(The old men’s clothes; not the widows’; let’s not get weird)
Nice pullover shirts, expensive blazers, everything goes
And ties to the 1970s geared
I am as Bob Newhart lost in an age
Of tattered tees and designer sneaks
Hardly the attire of a wise old sage
One of the last sartorial antiques
When old men die their widows give me their clothes
I look quite natty in them, I suppose
(The old men’s clothes, not the widows; let’s not get weird)
Apr 2, 2025
Apr 2, 2025 at 9:00 AM UTC
We dream in highways and landslides, miss the bus and walk the industrial zone, rusted barrels and weeds through the milk carbon whine of gutted machinery. I wear last decade’s dress, all black and splayed hollow; you, the ostentation of a formless pullover. You reach into your pocket — the last smoke before you quit, so you say — climb the graves of primary industry and exhale a microcosm of pitch.
We don’t speak for days. Years of wasting, ******* on churches, and the emptiness of night walks. I don’t *** because I hate endings and you depart to whatever next fix won’t sort you out. It’s a dreary waste of time and we both know it, but we move in circles before an abyss, growing wretched until nothing remains but traces of a vibrancy we’d never had.
After you depart, I mould myself a simulacrum of you. Time slows. I lose touch with my surroundings. Piles form. The imminent dissolves like sugar, like scent on the clothes you left. I find your pullover from months back and it clings like water. And it smells like negative space. And it covers me completely.
May 7, 2019
May 7, 2019 at 11:43 AM UTC