"scantily" poems
maybe I should encourage violence within conformity and seek to end impressionism or maybe NOT!- create perversions within a song split-ting hairs of the long dead being found at a youthful age washed ashore no longer breeding nor bleeding ceased of breathing to be now an exact science- scaled back models of when it was brave to be bold but hidden from news cameras for leftover caveats - I wanna go else-where and find redemption to shout **** you - desktop plants dried out from foul air and aspirin bottles ******** clad in old skin next to a banana peel- no remorse no recourse no answers for in my brain
prescribed lies conjunct with irreversible truth complexity.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
I
If I were a poet
I would compose beautiful line
breaks and elegant stanzas.
Similes would be ******** scattered
with alliteration like
stars against a sunset sky.
My tone would be of reason
rather than innocence.
I would refuse to analyze
the meaning of death in literature.
II
Fortune cookies would be my mantra
and life would be a wiggle
instead of a struggle.
I would pray five times a day
to my journal
most benevolent, ever-merciful.
My poems would not be of peace
of war
or (you)nity
or them here Amur'cans.
III
My form would be indifferent
and probably never earn me awards
or acceptance to grad school.
Fondness of (parentheses)
may get me compared to e.e. cummings
or completely dismissed
if I were a poet.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 11:49 AM UTC
Peculiar
Agreed?
How ******** clad lassies
Get the pass to show their ***
Long as nobody touches
Jiving gyrations
In counter-clockwise rotation
Seldom unescorted by damnation
By God, sense the relation
She's losing her patience
Can't afford to be a patient
So being patient...
That **** is ancient
Swanging ******* before eyes
Eyes that can't see
Eyes blind by the fuckery
***** get hickory
And the tic tickory of the clock
Stops
Drop drop
Shake that body for the coin
Make those men yearn to join
Their meat to your groin
Blind men throw out the presidents
Nixon Jackson Benjamin
Facts is
That these hoes stay cashing in
More than ****** busting traps
And toting gats to make stacks
Peculiar
Agreed?
How a ***** sell and smoke ****
High off they own supply
Baby mamas multiply
Covered all the **** by a lie
Making these young girls cry
And the innocent have to die
For this boy to strive
When you mad at the *** clap
Fat *** on a mans lap
Slow wine then fast
Slow grinding for cash
But no harm is caused
No obstruction of laws
But men be a "Boss"
& a woman... A loss
Oct 19, 2013
Oct 19, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
A big fire breathing robot boom box
played loud dance music
while a ******** clad girl danced
twirling fire batons.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 10:05 PM UTC
so it begins when it begins
blasé grass serrates
past herds of carabao dreaming anxiously
of the day's toil;
the countryman stilts through
mounted in gray mountain
with dippers, casserole, mirrors
with imprints of ******** clad women
and women who are (really ******** clad) ready for bathing work,
collections of red days and even
tenderly the ***** sing attenuated songs of rooming-houses —
the crunch of basil over the afternoon.
waft of a pasture's death my eyes well
up rivers and ponds of elation. dog days, feral nights limp behind rusted
kennels and makeshift asylums
there is nothing left of the world
(this small world
that only rises when bellows
of festivities harangue the many streets
bending in them, the curve)
men moving from neck to neck
of bottles — (in the north there
is only four corners of bottle: gin,
pristine brook; in the Visayas is
the redolent Vino Kulafu of the same
potency) plucked out of the vermilion
and on benched careening on half-painted gates crooning Sinatra
gets stabbed, bloodied on the floor,
named after elegies; native chicken held
upside down and beheaded as many blacker days stifled; what do you make
out of this?
carabaos, equines, hens line up
the slaughterhouse behind the
TODA; you know a fine day when
it happens — breaking eggs
against the lip of the kaldero. crumbled
archaic sensurround, barrage of
simmer round the clock cycling
before the child wakes and wails to suckle
our mothers, faster than repose
of milbrightlions of stars falling asleep
to silent radios, leaving windows
open revisited by the eve of cold.
Nov 9, 2015
Nov 9, 2015 at 10:24 PM UTC
Shall I open volley,
spike with clenched hand?
Acquiesce to athleticism,
or drop return?
Is there a score?
numbers imply a plan,
encumbered; ******** clad...
jockstraps and leather,
tube socks and man.
****** courts,
exotic terminology,
words of reduction,
redacted, redacted, redacted!
under spells of seduction...
What more?
Who the **** cares.
Piles can be chucked,
and strip smiles, 1 grain at a time,
throw a bone, throw another,
you'll build your own monster.
What more?
redacted, redacted, redacted!
join me down below...
I'll give you history,
it will set everything aglow.
What more?
**** more.
Questions?
redacted; for your own security.
Not Goliath,
not even Iago... wait, that may be whom you cast!
Laughter man, so much laughter,
I grow darker;
a product of your mind; that's just a reminder.
Had I plotted, had I connived,
had I been...
trolling gutters,
sexing the populace,
setting parties to war?
You gave me the part,
and the act was in pantomime...
improbable for paralysis
severed spine,
redacted, redacted, redacted.
You set loose scenarios,
and now I willingly oblige...
I'll take my bow,
and cunning smile.
Sep 9, 2010
Sep 9, 2010 at 6:19 PM UTC
i didn't say a word.
the laughter was wrapping
tight about my neck.
two ex-girls were blushing,
my glance ricocheted off,
then landed on
my clasped hands.
i wasn't in charge of the party.
i only lived where it took place.
nobody had any alcohol,
everybody drank coffee or redbull;
talked with foreign
class.
i wasn't in charge of the music.
i only owned the stereo system.
so we listened to some pop-punkshit.
i started storing excuses,
in case someone asked me to dance.
the boys were all grinning.
the boys were all christians,
while they hunted their prey.
the girls were all grinning.
the girls were all christians,
while they still ran free.
i played priest.
kept my *** on the couch,
swore celibacy with every fired neuron.
lauren was gone,
and
amie threw a party.
she invited an army of
******** dressed exs
just to remind me i
hadn't outran my guilt.
the laughter started to wane,
people looked to me to stir
the conversation.
i didn't say a word.
i didn't breathe.
the weight of the room
was too heavy for me.
i cut myself from the stares,
someone asked where i was going,
my feet kept moving until
carpet
was traded for
concrete
was traded for
gas pedal
was traded for
anywhere distant.
Jun 7, 2010
Jun 7, 2010 at 11:46 AM UTC
Love is an amazing thing
People just mix up what hurts.
Love is Beautiful
Rejection is sad
Love makes a mortal hopeful
Disappointment makes him mad
Love is supposed to be Truthful
Lying makes the relationship go bad
Thus making the mortal ruthful
And begins placing feelings on a writing pad
Claiming " love is hurtful"
Lies, your words are ******** clad
For love is bliss.
-fir.m
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 8:21 AM UTC
756
One Blessing had I than the rest
So larger to my Eyes
That I stopped gauging—satisfied—
For this enchanted size—
It was the limit of my Dream—
The focus of my Prayer—
A perfect—paralyzing Bliss—
Contented as Despair—
I knew no more of Want—or Cold—
Phantasms both become
For this new Value in the Soul—
Supremest Earthly Sum—
The Heaven below the Heaven above—
Obscured with ruddier Blue—
Life’s Latitudes leant over—full—
The Judgment perished—too—
Why Bliss so ******** disburse—
Why Paradise defer—
Why Floods be served to Us—in Bowls—
I speculate no more—
1.7k
The human definition of humanity is becoming a conundrum-filled calamity.
Vivid memories of eclectic booming sounds continue bursting around veterans as they lose sanity.
Mothers work through their pregnancies as their children are born into a materialistically filled world of profanity.
Has the wheel of morality begun an uncontrollable spin in our growing urbanity, or is because of the religious wars we fight, the likes of Christianity?
A travesty amongst us all, but this pain brings an unorthodox form of healing, as we learn from our mistakes and fantasy.
We ******** band together, with our thoughts in groups, to determine a path back towards our morality.
We fight with vigor such as if we were the Roman General Antony.
These fruitless and segmented fights can make the matters worse no matter the strategy.
We must all wake up at once from our mindless love of insanity, and finally, throw to the wayside this world's cruel vanity.
Who or what will ignite the single uniting thought to spread instantly throughout, the thought that will bring peace to our mind, sanity.
Dec 13, 2016
Dec 13, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
I hear your words through the confusion of the bubblegum jungle
Exploding and annoying syllables layered helplessly on the walls of graffiti infused concrete trees
The Rush St. preachers wailing sounds
of the end of world
"The apocalypse is coming, GOD be with y..."
Abruptly interrupted by another city ant walking by..
"Go to hell, you mother ******
The preacher whispers to himself
"May God have mercy on his soul, Amen"
White City elites with turned up noses
on their Michigan Ave stroll
"Snobs" central passing by the homeless
as they whisper for change
sitting next to their leaky cardboard mansions
******** clad ladies of night
selling their *** to married men,
to whom are seeking to expel their worries
between the legs of the fallen
"Take that harder, harder"
Echoes of moans from the alley way
Cash for a minute of pleasure and gone
This bubblegum jungle will chew you up and spit you out
It doesn't seek retribution
It's only seeks hunger
Feeding off the weak and nimble
Leaving your bones on the bent and deserted sidewalks of the White City
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 1:22 PM UTC
Sliding from the silky, satin sheets
Slowly she saunters to the terrace
And scans the sparkling, star-sprinkled sky
As slender arms loosely clasp her svelte, ******** swathed silhouette
So too her thoughts encircle her sweetheart
She smiles as she recalls their tryst...
*His strong embrace holding her safe and secure
Lips that tease with nearness
At last bestowing passion-soaked kisses
Whilst hands slide up to her soft, supple breast
And trace circles around her sensitive, cerise *******
She is lost now
Caught in the exquisite snare of sinfully-sweet reminiscences
Of two lovers seeking to please
And thirsting to be satisfied...
*Slow, tantalizing caresses gracefully ****** their souls
Hearts, minds and bodies of two lovers now aroused
Suspended over the precipice
Oh, yes, such blissful anticipation
And then … surrender
Surrender to sweet, sweet ecstasy!*
As she stands now on the circumference of sensual abyss
She sways slightly
A soft breeze strokes her sun-kissed skin
It whispers to her spirit and begins to sing a song
A song so enticing
So stirring
That small goosebumps rise and glisten
So once more she slips betwixt silky, satin sheets
Jul 6, 2011
Jul 6, 2011 at 9:21 PM UTC
No one ever looks up
unless they're desperate for someone
to be looking down.
From a secular point of view,
the blue resembles passive disappointment,
while ******** clad oaks scream at business on the sidewalks.
Five-hundred dollar spectacles don't christen sin-wrought oxygen,
pure, spring water is perfect as the grey sog seeping from the seams,
benevolent ******* makes every trouble white sand
and iPhones can only do so much for a borrowed morality.
Bright eyes fade with the morning wind.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
Though I style my curly braids with ribbons bright,
and colour my sweet moist lips with royal red
to look as bright and fair as a newly wed.
Though I stand on two towers to get a better height,
with eyelashes that beckon at each gazer.
Though my trendy gowns make me a trailblazer
with great designer labels that distinguish.
Though I have curves which men wished they could relish,
revealed slightly through my ******** clad frame.
Though I have this charm which could hardened hearts tame,
making vicious criminals to dream and lust,
still I am nothing more than organic dust.
Sep 5, 2021
Sep 5, 2021 at 8:47 AM UTC
her maudlin ******** clad emotions
moved across her vivid motion face
she paused to fumble with the settings
but her steam engine heartstrings are
trying to re-write themselves
like a derringer she carries both smoke and fire
concealed in her compact chrome adorned form
i kiss her deeply with adoration
i kiss her with loves longings
she denies such things have realities
she says that its only the oily taste of aftersex with an unclean woman
that is real and good
i cannot wish away her versions of reality
she caged her fingers
with pewter rings in the shapes of skulls and dragons
but the real danger lay not in her blades and devices
but in the lingering i would do admiring her
so used to the vestibule of her carnal delights
i would venture no further
into the amazon jungle of her forbidden fruits
and i would forever one of her
treasured trophies in the neatly appointed sitting room
with the ticking clock and chipped fine china
with the blurry photographed crying faces
and a carpet adorned with images of plagues rampages
death is no mere stick figure
with some wicked blade
he's a carpetbagger selling cheap potions
in the twisted carnival of life
her thick tears are slow to escape her eyes
as she looks off into the oncoming night
and the face of the unbearable
her maudlin emotions vivid to me
as my hand holding hers in empathy is to her
she decorates the flawed image she sees in her mirror
and with mock flair unleashes herself
into the alleyways silence
she turns back to me and without a word
pulls delicate fingers across my cheek
in a gesture almost intimate
smiles and walks into the shadows
she is a figurine in the circus of night
a danger of delights
a mouthful of wonders and razors
she walks slowly back in
the thick grey of dawn
her step weary
her gaze downcast
i hold her in my arms trying to restore
but you cannot fix what was never whole enough
to get broken in the first place
i kiss her deeply and with gentle adorations
she looks into my eyes
and remains unseeing
this is not how love is supposed to be
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 6:41 AM UTC
I will tell you a story please don't think me bad
Concerning myself and the ******** clads.
I was just a young man, easily led,
They sent me to paint the gardener's shed
I looked around what did I see?
The ******** clads looking back at me!
Pictures of scantilys everywhere
Standing about in their underwear.
What I saw I found rather appealing
I commited a sin resulting in stealing.
The gardener would return that day
Only to find a book gone astray.
So please please, don't think of me bad
Blame it all on the ******** clads
Then I made a big mistake
Into my room the book I would take.
My mind got lost in fantasy
Those ******** clads got the better of me.
I was only a young man stuck in a rut
I should never have entered the gardener's hut.
Then something happened that made me sad
The book ended up there in the hands of my dad.
"Tell me son where did this come from?
Good job I found it instead of your mom".
"Please dad don't think of me bad
I am only a young man easily led
They sent me to paint the gardener's shed.
I looked around and what did I see?
Those ******** clads looking back at me!
And what I saw I found appealing
So, I commited a sin resulting in stealing".
My dad was not angry but rather, concerned,
He said in a calm voice
Son there is a lesson you must learn
What you have stolen you must return.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 5:12 PM UTC
Like the king of a rainy country, am I!
Rich, but weak, young with an agèd eye -
The grovelling of his old tutors he scorns,
The company of dogs leaves him forlorn.
Nothing can bring him joy, no hunt nor falconry,
Nor the mortal jousts before his balcony,
From his favourite jester no ***** tale
Can redden the cheek of one so pale.
His ornate chamber has become a tomb -
And courtesans, scantily-clad, to whom,
Though royal favours inspire their provocation;
This skeletal youth finds no temptation.
Flamel himself could forge no plan
To extract the dark humours from this man.
In the baths of blood from days of yore,
He finds no properties to restore
This dazed corpse in whose veins once red -
Now flows the green waters of Lethe instead.
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 9:26 AM UTC
Energy, Electric
Blue, Shocking, Stinging, Fire
It burns and buzzes in my blood
A constant presence
The ******** clad succubus on my shoulder
Whispering lustful nothings in my ear
Always on my mind
Perverting and Invading
Thoughts stained with crimson desire
Heart rate heart rate
Faster faster
Harder harder
Blush, giggle
Hide the ***** feelings one shouldn't feel
Feign the innocence that's been feigned for years
Need, want
Anything to quench this constricting fire
Sep 7, 2012
Sep 7, 2012 at 9:01 AM UTC
What is it?
Is it, being stunning, without a single flaw?
having a perfect figure, a well-defined jaw?
Is it shutting in your emotions and keeping composure?
Perhaps being ******** clad, with indecent exposure.
No.
Beauty is none of the above
It is acceptance, and self love
Not listening to others who try to bring you down
Shrugging off the haters without so much as a frown.
Beauty is a smile, a confident walk
Not listening to when the naysayers talk
No one else can define what is true
Beauty is simply being you
May 20, 2013
May 20, 2013 at 1:28 AM UTC
Jukebox rocks, two dozen hard working dusty men,
Bent elbows lean, Gold liquid flows
Glass rises, lit cigarettes talk.
She poses on a white piano bar,
******** clad; slow moving, bending,
grinding, shaking, gyrating.
She blows kisses
to admiring eyes
with lustful wishes.
Cleo's little girl dream
of being rescued
fades with each midnight hour.
She spins around, steel scissors held high.
Scissors reflect mirrored walls;
penetrates smoky beer air.
The scissor flashes down
cutting a hole above her heart.
Cleo offers the red satin circle,
Keepsake for the trucker who watches.
He believes, "She dances for me."
He offers up a dead President.
She cuts a hole here
cuts a hole there.
Soon she can start her own government.
It's hard to know where
first hole began or
last hole ends.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 11:12 AM UTC
She looked at the ******** dressed young girl with a smirk.
"What, what's wrong?" The girl questioned.
She replied, "Oh darling, beautiful things don't ask for attention... I think you've forgotten what you are."
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
On a summer day I saw a pretty dame
bathing in the warm waves of the beach's tub.
She tanned her skin to adorn her slim frame,
massaging its softness with each gentle rub.
From that distance, she exuded sweet fragrance
stemming from the refining of her radiance.
Sensual movements from lips, hips, curves, legs and hands
made me fantasize as I relished each moment.
My love-struck eyes gazed at the rhythmic movement
of this ******** clad model for all lands.
After a sunbath, she tied her pristine towel,
then with a fixed look, she gazed straight at me.
'Hello, the adventurous gentleman,' said she.
'You sure look gay, hale, hearty and swell.'
Shyly my fears of rejection loomed large,
whilst my love dreams turned out to be a mirage.
Aug 8, 2021
Aug 8, 2021 at 7:45 AM UTC
Today I am slickly coated
with the sheen of a long walk,
only holding hands with purpose;
the goal to find it.
The destination that holds promise
according to the latest yelp reviews-
promise worth remembering
while bearing the heat of the summer subways,
the morose and lonely feeling
of watching a couple cling to each other
as the trains swing our bodies around.
When the stench of the city streets-
the receptacles for those
who can't wait any longer,
invade our noses like they were home.
The promise that morphs into ringing
in my head when my stomach grumbles
next to the carts on the sidewalks
with the burning flesh they call halal meat,
smells warm and familiar
sharing shish kabob kisses and chicken knishes,
but I've left those days behind me.
Now I'm scouring the streets of Brooklyn,
for that new chic creperie sans animals,
things with faces, or friends if you will,
screaming "Find me!"
whilst dodging the heady scents of Popeye's,
and bacon egg and cheeses,
meat markets, fish markets, bright moving ads,
of women ******** clad eating burgers.
Would you like lox or sturgeon with that bagel?
and when I do get to the little mom-and-pop
of a hole-in-the-wall cafe,
I think of the carnivorous brothers and sisters
that have had the meatballs to join me.
The countless nights I've had to explain
where I get my protein from,
that yes, I can eat pizza.
And no, it's not a travesty
that I want to give up cheese.
Because the real travesty is in the this country's handling
of living things, and by animals- I mean all of us.
And carnivorous brothers and sisters,
when you're feeling threatened and defensive- and you've got
guilt and entitlement coursing through your
friend-fed veins and thus you claim,
We're shoving our vegan, vegetarian, pescetarian
efforts down your throats.
Think again and know that we're only doing the best
we can to help what we believe in.
That we eat and live
with purpose and promise in mind.
Real women can eat vegetables too.
You can take vegetarians to barbecues.
Trust me, we're good at co-existing,
Are you?
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 12:36 PM UTC
Waves hiss
lapping the shoreline,
******** clad
beings
soaking up the sun.
A slight breeze
pushing clouds,
they dance
for our
entertainment.
The vastness
of the ocean
reminding me
of the bigger
picture.
The grains
of sand
whisper
their allegiance
to the stars.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 2:06 PM UTC