"pyjama" poems
You are
the sky to me
clear and bright and endless
You are
laughter to me
loud and happy and peeling
You are
sugar to me
sweet and small and fine
You are
the computers software to me
the Indiana Jones adventure to me
the pyjama-wearing Sunday to me
Comforting, Comforting
Stop hugging me, it’s annoying you said
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 9:29 AM UTC
I'd been trying to write a poem
Just one ******* poem
But he said
*Just **** around*
Swallow down a bowl full of squares
Let’s play games with each other’s minds
Spend a night lost in a house of cards
Where the joker cackles despite your begging
A reminder of what I could do without
Shouting at the world from the white pavilion
You suckers!
With your skirts hitched up and tongues hanging out
Gagging on a lover’s loneliness
All I see is your undergarments crying for attention
With a liquor solace barely down your throat
Eighteen silver blades
Smile at me with their perfect teeth
One to mark each year that past
A nineteenth will not be necessary
Ready to drag
Like the man trailing his head on a string
Across the surgeon’s winking knife
Tapping their toes on the bathroom counter
Anxious to mingle with my flesh
I’ve already scrubbed in
The survival rate looks dismal
The cotton reel loosens and my halo slips
Down - the noose around my neck
He sat across the room in plaid
Remarked upon the crosshatch of red
That drew the crooked red grin on the white of my thigh
Like loops of raspberry liquorice
Seeping out sticky tears
He misses handling the vegetables
Who ordered cocktails in lurid colours
Well, I’ve a mélange of my own
A collection of prescriptions from the doctor’s office
Stored in a heart shaped box
To swallow down like jelly beans
I’m waiting for that deadly sugar rush
Death’s been dancing on my doorstep
Absent minded as I sit at the dinner table
Head in hand, foot in grave
There’ll be no morning migraine
Perhaps a little mourning in the peripheral vision
Swept up from beneath the climbing frame
Under a soil blanket with a tomb stone mattress
Coughing up the sand in my throat
That I emptied from the egg-timer
Those darling quadrilateral crystals
Blissful in their ignorance
Disturbing my quiet complacency
Drowned in a glass of tomato juice
That I poured from my skull
Death holds my hand in the dark
And I whisper to pass on the message
Bury me with pyjama’s and a pillow
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 6:23 AM UTC
Pyjama top, buttons just two.
Old dressing gown, elbows worn through.
Slippers frayed with holes worn at heel.
Is this how old age soon will feel?
Eyes blurred and spots a float in front
Joints ache as you kneel with a grunt.
My glasses, they’re, not in their place.
Memory is losing the race.
Jun 15, 2014
Jun 15, 2014 at 6:20 AM UTC
In Auschwitz the air hung still.
The dragons are imaginary.
Once they had their fill.
The only gold fell from the fingers of those now perished chosen ones.
The birds crying relinquished flowers.
Lilies all dressed for death.
The classless funeral attire of the blue stripey pyjama death.
Now the camps be emptied.
Those passed inside be free.
Camp be closed.
All souls released, but still the sky hangs heavily.
May God please bless the free.
(C) Livvi
Jan 22, 2015
Jan 22, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
They come for her in red and blue
ambulance lights disco dancing fragmented beats,
purple intent drumming against flaking graffiti art on the garage door;
aerosol skeletal rose garden shadows cower
under twist-rust razor wire
fencing
in the flowerbed graveyard strewn with dogs’ delights—
there is neither bark nor howl,
those sounds echo deep within the basement walls;
lumps of meat a’thudder,
twisted growls
for the boy, Timothy,
which both Rottweilers had been fond of as well.
Until the very end.
Neighbourhood eyes scowl,
wide-eyed middle-aged pyjama-children
fresh from midnight escapades;
arms folded tight,
everyone glares at her night-stained blood dress,
and the dogs’ heads held high above her pretty head,
revenge-trophies served lukewarm
on a school night against the backdrop of suburbia
crying
under ambulance sirens’
apocalyptic announcement regarding Amy:
had she not answered that phone call and left little Timmy unattended,
she might still have been able to hold him in her arms.
Until the very end.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 5:43 AM UTC
A pyjama worn
you come along
together with my yawn.
Apr 17, 2016
Apr 17, 2016 at 9:38 AM UTC
Alone at home
The house is a symphony of day-sounds,
And wants me gone.
Scattered toys express sullen resentment at my pyjama'd presence,
The cats just stare.
I force my working self upon this world,
With keyboard clacks,
The kettle,
And boiling pasta.
I try a hum, then Spotify,
But it all feels alien, too forced.
The house wants the others;
Shrieking, laughing, conversation,
Clashing plates,
A Disney movie
The warmth of family.
This house
wants to be a home.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 8:03 AM UTC
i said it were a lovely day, i did not mean the weather.
i talk about the feeling, the mood that did not change, all day,
little tasks that please. planting chives in treacle tins, ironing pyjama pants,
and cotton handkerchiefs.
he warned me the rain would come, and when it did
heavy, we tucked in tight here, enyoyed the darker
green.
then, the rain will stop.
sbm.
May 28, 2015
May 28, 2015 at 1:10 AM UTC
that's just the way the body goes i guess
wanna mould my hands around his shoulders
through t-shirt and pyjama pants
wonder what the mirror shows him
that perfect mouth is smiling
do i wanna be him or ingest him
i wish that i could memorise it
wanna put my mouth around the reflection
kiss him everywhere until he sees red
hold his perfect imperfect face and
taste myself on his breath
take his arms or be held in them
i wanna feel and i wanna know
i guess that's just the way the body goes
Sep 19, 2024
Sep 19, 2024 at 3:16 AM UTC
me and collie took the town by storm,
black man and white man
drinking buddies? what a rarity.
uncle didn’t join us the old ghanian,
we had drunk sentimentalities, of course,
but when russel the schizoid rudolf came
up and told us the tottenham man city score
i went into the alley and almost ****** myself
prior shouting h and a into an ivory rattle of teeth.
but what a night, collie’s girlfriend i also met,
i remember kissing her dry brown skin
on the bone of finger, before being chauffeured home;
but of course, before all that, staring into
the gape of being centralised by the passerby’s eyes,
a lot of english pyjama beauties walked the talk
getting their score of **** -
if not more.
but as i pointed out to the white colt - the jeans below the knees
with... calvin kleine - ‘mate, you need flashy underwear to
walk with your **** exposed - primani ain’t gonna cut it for the hoes.’
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 8:56 AM UTC
I remember the day we met,
What feels like centuries ago,
Gone in the blink of an eye,
Pink Pyjama's and dad's old slippers,
Only a child, you repeated to me
The glimmer in your eye
still remains today,
The years passed,
Me - Growing older every hour,
You - Never aging, withering,
Promises still growing strong,
Your presence becomes my life,
Clinging onto childhood, By
Clinging onto you,
I hold your hand, Both
desperate to stay in the imaginary,
Without slipping into reality,
Each day, a new adventure,
Yet you have to fade so quickly,
I rest, we talk for hours,
When I awaken you're never by my side,
As the years go by,
I fear you'll disappear completely,
My mind is weakening,
It's only a matter of time,
Until I forget.
My daydream, hope, fantasy,
You finally escape from my mind,
And now I have to face reality.
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 3:02 PM UTC
He sat there, always looking out of a small round window
That could easily be a reflection of his tragic mind
Since the day he knew he’d been left on his own
It seemed like there was nothing in there left to find.
Every day from half-past eight and all day till five-past five
He sat immobile staring out, a sad look on his face
He’d never notice anyone, nor speak a single word
He’d sit there never stirring from his lonely lonely place.
He may have wondered where they’d gone, for they looked after him
But his parents, both of them now dead, had done their very best
Now here he was at fifty-three, an only child yet still
Just left to stare through windows, in old pyjama bottoms and vest.
He’ll be swallowed up by the system, and churned back out to the street
He’ll wander about in his own little world, and we won’t understand
He’ll be doing his best with what he knows and what he tries to follow
But our complex welfare system just won’t deal with his demands.
©Joe Wilson – An Inadequate System 2014
Apr 18, 2014
Apr 18, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
it's never you he will remember it was her
he was a car crash
and you were an unreturned library book
he caused thousands in damage
you; a late fee
she was EMT's and flashing lights
and bandages and scar kisses
she was storm clouds and
lightening strikes and screaming between sheets
and you were condensation
on shower ceilings and crackling
speakers in beaten up cars with roll up windows
you were floral patterns and pastel shades
and grey socks and tidy bedrooms
you were studying hard and drinking with friends
you were beach trips and family photo's
and B grades
you were wavy hair, no make up pyjama sundays
she was studs and torn denim and
laddered stockings and lace up boots
she was binge drinking and pill taking all alone
she was road trips and broken frames
and "I didn't finish College" grades
she was last nights make up and strangers clothes sundays
she was hushed whispers and angry words
and 100 things you did wrong today
you are child hood friends and same class time to graduate
she is loud and grubby and free
you are shy and calm and soft
you are memories and happy dreams
she is crying in the middle of the night and aching touches
she is broken fingers and hearts
you are bashful smiles and spring clouds
you are april showers and she is winter downpours
your touch is sacred
her touch is a fabrication of a half-dream
just chemicals and adolescent love
you were 2 kids, suburban homes
you were safe
she was fear
you were alive
she was living
Jul 19, 2014
Jul 19, 2014 at 7:04 PM UTC
do you ever wonder how you ended up in a car with this boy, that a year ago you didn't even know?
a year ago you didn't know his name,
you didn't whisper it in your sleep or feel it in your skin
you didn't see reflections of his eyes in the stars or stars in the freckles on his cheeks
a year ago, you didn't think you'd make it to the summer
a year ago, you could never even imagine the possibility of loving someone else
do you ever wonder why you've gone halfway across the country for him and now we're going down these country lanes at 80mph with the full beams on
80mph with the full beams on and I trust you endlessly
80mph and you have classical music on and instead of being scared of the speed, I'm comfortable and tired
80mph in your tshirt, jumper and my pyjama shorts
80mph and I can't see the road ahead of us
but speed up, baby
I'm fallin' for you at 80mph
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 8:40 AM UTC
and i am still waking up at 3 am as if i can still hear you breathing
next to me
but you're not there and the bed is cold on the side where you slept
only when it is dark and the house is still to i let myself
be surrounded by things that remind me of you
your ***** pyjama top and that stupid ******* sweater
my pillow still smells off you so i singed the edges when i was drunk
and it's just another thing to add to the list of things i regret
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 4:11 PM UTC
Almost two years ago, the place I once called home began crashing down beside me while I was surrounded by flames. Who knew that with my suicidal ideologies I would clench on to my life as my lungs began to fill with smoke. When I was standing outside in a blizzard with a t-shirt, pyjama pants and no shoes on screaming while on the phone with 911, I watched all my childhood memories, home, and everything I've ever owned burn in front of me. The firefighters, the media, the company who salvaged anything they could and the town couldn't stop saying how lucky my step dad and I are to be alive; that we should not be here today, but we have an angel watching over us. The girl who who was hospitalized for attempted suicide and depression four months before this incident was begging for her life and is so thankful to be here today. I have learned that I am meant to be here, that I have a purpose. Who knew that being so close to death because of something I had no control over would make me love life, and everything about it. It was the fire that took everything, but gave me everything all at the same time.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 1:21 PM UTC
I was asked to create a holiday,
What about a pyjama day?
We would not get dressed at all,
Stay in bed, hide and stall,
Sit around in flannelette,
Stay in PJ's, don't get dressed,
In fact, don't wash or cook,
Do mental slumming with ****** books!
Oct 7, 2019
Oct 7, 2019 at 4:17 PM UTC
see...
(sniffing sound) -
the problem with tiki torches
when compared to flares?
you haven't experienced
football hooliganism...
one has the assumption
of being menacing,
the other? an assertion
of being menacing...
oh i know a football chant...
ooh ah! cantona!
and ł.k.s.! jebał pies! -
even though i originate from
an insignificantly small town,
we still managed to play
with the "titans"...
hooliganism...
hmm... a type of mafia, right?
a group effort not riddled
by bloated ego?
which is the exact point
why tiki torches are funny...
and a crimson flare so menacing
in comparison...
you can't nuance conviction...
appearance is politics...
Louis XIV knew that all too well...
foolery, double standards,
and the must of every earthly court
to boot: a jester to serve
compliments of ridicule...
the sort of punching bag
that punches some sense back
into the lead head...
given: heavy "hangs" the crown.
i can't believe that i lived
in england for over 20 years
and spent most of those years
rummaging between the irish
and the scots...
the only english person
i've had "intimate" time with,
is probably mummified
by a t.v. screen...
i'm actually jokingly
convinced that the english
are not even existentially valid,
in the sense of: lurking in shadows;
it has also become a "game" of:
and who the **** would want
to **** this pyjama party of
walking Madonnas with
their exuberance into faking the fashion
of 15 minutes later:
trash in hand, donning
cling hair rollers
(10 minutes trying to find the correct
term... how autistic of me)
buying a bottle of *****
yeah, really,
no wonder i drink
to define excess...
about as desirable as a
penny on a pavement...
mate with what? that?!
make it short,
i'm done with dramatics that
have no memorable quote.
flares still feel more authentic than
tiki torches...
then again,
american football is so stupid
that cricket makes
sense, and
there's no need for a hooligan
making a stance.
seriously... american football
is the most idiotic game in encompassing
the need for a coliseum!
i'm authentic
in my bewilderment at the complexity
of cricket, that, i get,
american football makes
about as much sense as
american foreign policy outside
of the poker face of f. d. Roosevelt;
i must be ******** or something,
or, something else, i just don't know.
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 10:29 AM UTC
Oh, please tell me why I still care for the side of you that always
lets me down – my mind becomes your fence, picking at all of my
thoughts – each one a slat in a picket fence to surround your own
insecurities.
Tell me what lights are coming on, to keeping on pretending that
love still turns you on; have you truly spent the nights restlessly
trying to fall asleep in a **** pose, draped in nothing but a pyjama
thong?
You shed your clothes more readily than your skins, that could
unveil the core of your true self – “this time, I am changing,” you
proclaim, yet what truly changes if you harbour such shame for
the loose parts of yourself, tell me what’s the point of looking for
change, if you don't want to fully change?
Dec 21, 2024
Dec 21, 2024 at 7:45 AM UTC