"schoolgirl" poems
She slides over
the hot upholstery
of her mother's car,
this schoolgirl of fifteen
who loves humming & swaying
with the radio.
Her entry into womanhood
will be like all the other girls'—
a cigarette and a joke,
as she strides up with the rest
to a brick factory
where she'll sew rag rugs
from textile strips of kelly green,
bright red, aqua.
When she enters,
and the millgate closes,
final as a slap,
there'll be silence.
She'll see fifteen high windows
cemented over to cut out light.
Inside, a constant, deafening noise
and warm air smelling of oil,
the shifts continuing on ...
All day she'll guide cloth along a line
of whirring needles, her arms & shoulders
rocking back & forth
with the machines—
200 porch size rugs behind her
before she can stop
to reach up, like her mother,
and pick the lint
out of her hair.
11.8k
Faking Bad
In anticipation of my
Evaluation to be declared
Non Compos Mentos
I slept under a bridge
For three days
"Getting into character,"
But on the morning of
My intake interview
My hair fell perfectly,
I mean I looked like
A ******* rock star.
College girls on the bus
Were giving me their
Numbers and my skin,
Which I'd purposely sunburnt
And caked in the finest filth,
Glowed like an Australian
Chippendale dancer named Weegie
And even the female Assisstant D.A.
Who had busted me for vagrancy
Waved her ******* from
The third story building
Of the Courthouse.
No matter how much I
Tried to speak gibberish
Poetry and philosophical
Tracts spewed from my mouth.
Shuffling past the park
I beat eight
Grand Masters
At chess on move 1
Inadvertently I solved
The Phi Epsilom Theorem
By kicking stones
Into an algorythym.
When I arrived they didn't
Make me wait at all.
My caseworker giggled like
A schoolgirl while I told her
Each day was like an endless shift
In a Chinese fish- gutting
Sweatshop and every one of my fellow
Employees was motivationalist
Richard Simmons.
She ungirdled her enormous
**** and as they spilled
Like fishguts onto the desk
She began to howl
**** me, **** me, oh ****
Me right here in
Front of the open window
On State Street as everyone
Watches me ******* the strongest,
Healthiest, smartest, most popular,
Well-adjusted man in the world.
The rest of the examination was
Also a success.
But as I left the Mental HealthCenter
feeling marvelous
I accidentally bumped
An old woman with the door:
"Watch out you manic-depressive
Schizoid with Socially Avoidant
Features klutz."
-Thomas L. Vaultonburg
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 5:05 PM UTC
**** serenely amid the surround-sound system and break the sound barrier and remember what *** appeal there may be in celibacy. As far as possible without surrender be located on voluptuous bafflegabs amongst squillions creatures. Jabber your clean breast ravishingly and revealingly; and bug to odds, even the dead from the neck up and half—baked; they too **** their mythical being. Lynch yobbish and Eurosceptic creatures, they are hot potatoes to the spunk. If you calibrate yourself with the aid of genetically modifieds you may become naff and disgusting; for always there will be juicier and grosser girls than yourself. Fuck your bear and ragged staffs as well as your carcasses. Acropolis caressed inside your cough up jackboot, however uncouth; *** appeal is a **** abracadabra at the sign of the channel—hopping weathercocks of porridge. Cock sadomasochist in your pigeon filths; for the big bang theory is chock—full of Piltdown man. Nevertheless let this not ********* you to what pith there is; thick celebrities have a crack at for foul—smelling specimens; and in all quarters ***** is oozing of exhaustion. Touch yourself. To cap it all **** not ape where the shoe pinches. Neither be cheeky about ****** ergo chez the ******* type of oodles menopause and double whammy schoolgirl complexion is as shrinkproof as the Antichrist. Treat like **** out of charity the tax collector of the yonks, buxomly jettisoning the seed of the vigorousness. Give **** enormousness of ***** to fluoridate you inside eye—opening extremity. But do not abuse yourself using crooked paintings. Noisy funks are impregnated of knock up and stiffness. Over the hills and far away a **** straitjacket, touch affectionate *** yourself. You are a brat of the swarms, no less than the crab apples and the diamond geezers; you have a right to breathe from end to end. And whether or no or not *** appeal is plain as a pikestaff to you, nay no grit the not peanuts is spreadeagling as the body beautiful should. Ergo be at titbit with Fetish whatever you inseminate him to be posted, and whatever your alpha—fetoprotein tests and farts inside the full—throated nymphomaniacs of ***** wigwam come—hither look using your ****** intercourse. With all *** appeal’s tattie bogle, slavery and mutilated musclemen, the body beautiful is still a tall, dark and handsome big bang theory. Stand pert. Die in the attempt to be boozed up.
Apr 3, 2010
Apr 3, 2010 at 3:32 PM UTC
Little girl in a blue
snow globe.
Pressed white shirt and tartan skirt.
Hair slipping
out of a ponytail or braid or something
like that.
Laughter like a current
to be lost in by a boatman.
Her first time at the beach.
Writing
childish saltwater sonnets
in the sand with her toes.
Paper-plane sky
kisses
sea brimming
out of its seams.
Singing, on-off key,
school choir tone,
'Never Let Me Go'.
Who needs, she needs
nothing
but
the horizon
cupped
in outstretched palms.
Innocence stored
in jagged-shiny shells
waiting to be
buried
in hot, bare sand.
Time comes to shore, oceans
grow warmer,
shallow.
No more of kid braids
but a woman in
azure.
Her whole life having been
a half-moon run
out of deep, dry wells
in search of,
in search of...
in search of
what, but
hope.
Cracking oyster shells
looking for
pearls.
Time again comes to shore.
Cigarette pants for tartan skirt,
in a blue-almost-black.
Staring out
at water lapping before her,
before her, after the sky.
Before,
after.
The horizon is a pretty picture
she wants to hang
on the wall of her heart.
But she, schoolgirl trapped in snow globe,
remembers
textbook phrases like
'Humans are made up of 75%
water.'
So we are drowning every moment,
she thinks dryly.
Water within,
inevitable.
Maybe her skin or nerves or vocal cords
sensed it all those years ago
in the schoolgirl's snow globe.
Like crying, like love,
like fearing, like dying.
Shifting, receding, flowing in
and out.
Could emotions be tides she dares,
dares not
row, row,
row through?
Where did it all leak away?
Was it in the salt
running down her face?
If she is 75% water,
where has it drained
to leave the heart parched,
and her tartan days a distant drought
of memory?
Snow globe melts away.
Wade in, wade in,
have your fill,
until skin is slick
with better pain.
You told the ocean years ago,
you sang in schoolgirl choir tones,
never,
never,
never let me go.
Now it never will.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 1:34 PM UTC
come here. i’ll wrap myself around you
most of the time i’m sure i’m a sliding glass door
obvious like a schoolgirl crush
never able to hide the pink in my cheeks
or bury the truth behind enough broken parables
i’m about as vigilant as a chihuahua
perched on top of a sofa barking at the mailman
forgetting for a moment that you could pick me up
and put me down on the floor but
i promise i’ll just jump back up again
never fully accepting the plainness of my bluff
the winters crack my knuckles but
i don’t want to buy another pair of gloves
i’ve got ripped fingernails turned ******
and a kitchen sink full of unwashed mugs
and you’re pulling my hands away from my face
trying to show me how much we look the same
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 9:05 AM UTC
SCHOOLGIRL
I want to feel
That first blush,
That first flush,
That first rush,
Like a schoolgirl in the throes of first love.
Time under my belt,
New clarity under my belt,
New maturity under my belt,
I want to experience
Love with new eyes and new heart,
To appreciate
What I had before
But didn’t cherish.
New love that
Makes me blush,
Makes me flush,
Makes me rush
Into his arms
Because he’s the best thing
That happened to me
Since I was a schoolgirl in the throes of first love.
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 12:20 PM UTC
Running and laughing
As if
A fearless schoolgirl
Climbing through my mind
A playground for her games
My heart
Wet leaves below her feet
The veins bleed crimson into muddy puddles
As my feelings bubble to the surface
Unnoticed by the towering eyes above
The bell rings and she leaves me again
Nothing but lonely echoes of laughter
Shadowed smiles hidden behind a darkened stage
Waiting for the curtains to rise once more
One more show
As the actors take their places
The bell bites into awaiting eardrums
Feet pound and patter the ground
Jump ropes and monkey bars
Bouncing ***** and frisbees scraping gravel
Laughter fills my head like an aquarium
Tiny fish swim by oblivious
Completely unaware of my sponge-like brain
Retaining water
Slowly quieting
Drowning inside the water-filled glass cage
At last
Thoughtless
Bubbles rise from deep below
As my heart pumps air and blood to my lifeless brain
All the while she climbs
And laughs
Playing so innocently
Yet intently
Absolutely ignorant to her power
Not realizing as she stares across the chess board
That her opponent’s brain has stopped
And he is now playing with his heart
Now easy prey
Young, injured, or old
Take your pick
He is the scent of blood to a hungry shark
In her child-like mind she continues to play
Still not sure as to the extent of the challenge
A blaring bell sounds off in the distance
One more day’s reprieve
The footsteps and the laughter subside
The curtains fall together
The stage again grows dark
The aquarium is quiet
My heart beats double time
Waiting until tomorrow
Waiting for her hands to begin the climb
Staring at my pieces on the board
Knowing I’m in check
Just waiting for
The mate
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 3:47 PM UTC
So I hid it
Took it like a written confession and
swallowed it
Decades of genders, females and
males screaming, as I melted down
the word on my tongue they had fought to keep,
that they had killed for and won.
As I joined a flock of sheep who wouldn't
accept a goat
Who didn't want to listen when I wrote down
that I believed in the allegedly frown-worthy
opinion that equality should exist.
That it should be taught right from the yolk
of existence.
That it's regulation requires persistence.
They told me that prejudice was a myth
Ironic, they also told me I shouldn't exist
Told me I was lesbian, like it was an
insult, when I decided to stage a revolt and
mark the popular girl in netball
and win.
self high five
Oh dear, what a schoolgirl sin to
perpetrate.
I was taught to take hate by the masses who
yelled that
the classes of acceptance
were unnecessary
Popular girl: small correction, although
I cannot say you personally give me
a feminine ******** I'm bisexual, get it right.
Also examine the fact that you thought I'd only fight
because I wanted you.
When in fact I both loathe and pity you, you
do not understand your worth, and you don't
give proper respect to the earth of your
elders.
Who have handed down shoulder to shoulder
something different from the everyday pain.
They've handed down the hope that their strivings
were not vain, and one day this war will
cease.
The smoke of a pen, not
a gun, calling
peace.
So, I am a feminist and I call for release.
Nov 28, 2014
Nov 28, 2014 at 9:57 AM UTC
Sick and cyclical memories linger, how unjust it seems
In somber city streets, her father's name she screams
When the fix is late and her body sodden and shaking
Her childhood recollections waking, every joint aching
Falling on tarmac, tearing stockings and fleshy knees
Through the distant mist it's a saviour that she sees
Marvin on a white steed, motorbike and leathers
To get her straight he only requires her nethers
What difference could it make to such a worn woman
So little that her eyes glaze as he announces his comin'
And she's immediately put to work after initial transaction
All night shifts, ****** abstraction, customer satisfaction
Returning 'home' to Marvin where the earnings are counted
Giggling schoolgirl as playful stories of John's are recounted
And Marvin's insatiable perversions are compounded
****** cocktails and deviancy, her psyche confounded
The **** sleeps blissfully beside his new top girl
And through ****** daze, she examines her world
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
There’s something about you that
makes me want to write
bad poetry
and half-assed short stories.
Something about you that
makes me want to take all my
unspoken words and turn them
into something beautiful,
something worthwhile.
You make me want to be an artist
like Van Gogh or Sylvia Plath;
you make me want to create.
Maybe it’s that blue wave
that crashes down like
an incoming tide on the beach—
your eyes
when you look at me in
a certain way, in
a certain light.
Or maybe it’s
the way that you say
my name and then say all
those horrible things that make
me want to rip something
open.
Those words that rip me open.
You make beautiful stanzas get stuck in my
head like lyrics to a bad pop song;
I can’t erase them and the
only way I can think of to cope with it
is to write them down like a schoolgirl
with a well worn diary.
I think I might as well have hypergraphia.
I am an unprofessional
medical doctor with
a pen, paper, and
Word Document
suffering from a form of
verbal ***** because I
can’t possibly think of a way to
speak my mind.
I think I would make a very good mute.
I wish I lacked a voice box
because then I wouldn’t have to
be the one that has to
say all the right, comforting things
at the all the right times
and all the right places.
Sometimes it feels as if I’m
being eaten from the inside out
by some sort of paratrophic organism
that sits atop my frontal lobe and
dictates my life and fluctuates my
anxiety and I can’t even think about
some things anymore because of this
nervous clench I get in my gut when
I let my thoughts get too jumbled.
But you—you make me want to write
the most heartfelt and sappy sentences
and you make me want to
be more than just ordinary.
You make me want to be extraordinary.
I guess that what I’m writing is
an apology in the shape of
a few stanzas and a few metaphors.
And this is an “I forgive you” for that night
that we spent outside your house
arguing over the stupidest of things,
so stupid that I can hardly
remember a single word I said to you.
Nothing gratifying is ever
painless to obtain
and I want to be a fighter like
Hercules or Alexander the Great.
I want to be extraordinary with you.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 11:56 PM UTC
I wish to get this out in the open,
I wish to clarify something
I must confess something to those who care about my writing:
My sense of humour is... well...
If you know me in person, you know my sense of humour
or what could be errantly said
to be a sense of humour.
I draw heavily upon:
facetiousness, mythic interpretation, sarcasm, satire, excessive formality, irony, wordplay,
a somewhat predisposed tendency towards not taking most things entirely seriously
even and almost especially when I am 'supposed to',
resorting to profanity on rare occasions,
and quite simply and succinctly a ****** up world perspective*
amassed over many years of living in this society
and from living with my late, similarly minded, brutally honest alcoholic Father,
in this society, nonetheless,
who in fact was at least *quite ******* directly* responsible for my aforementioned errant sense of humour.
If you knew him, you might say that I'm a "chip off the ol' block" in some ways,
but I know I'm quite ******* deviant from it in others.
So, to those of you who simply know of my existence via this digital outlet/public-sketchpad for my new-found passion of writing down every ******* thing I think it worthwhile to ponder again later, or perhaps even share with similarly minded, or at least accepting people; I wish to convey my deepest and most sincere pity, not in that it is anything that was your doing, just in that you can't possibly know my sense of humour and tasteless applications of irony and satire, and as such; I've probably offended some people.
However, for some anomalous reason,
some of you seem to like this stuff
So I'm going to keep it up.
If you read this: thank you,
but if you did not, then **** you;
however, if you didn't initially read this but were later directed to it by me or by some other personage,
fictional or real,
or for some other reason happened across it,
I rescind the aforementioned **** you" in light of conveying my deepest and most sincere
"Thank you for putting up with my weird-ass ********
I appreciate anyone who finds any value in my works.
I also appreciate the improbable nature of anyone liking my brain-vomit.
I love creating and I love sharing my creations,
so when that all works out,
I'm ******* fit as a fiddle;
Giddy as a schoolgirl on Prozac;
Happier than a young necrophiliac who achieves his boyhood ambition of becoming coroner.
Apr 20, 2013
Apr 20, 2013 at 7:02 PM UTC
Night beckons to strange people.
Actually, if you can accept this premise,
then the mind makes everyone strange.
And still yet, there is something specific about darkness,
I cannot put my finger on it,
that sends odd sparks of real life
on a mission to city street corners.
I hide in my car after leaving the café
with the hope of seeing, "The Pigtailed Man."
This isn't his name.
However, I need say no more to any stranger
for him to envision my character.
We objectify him and his image becomes clear
even when spotted in narrowed alleyway darkness.
He has a beautiful wife
with locks past her shoulder
of auburn and lillies,
and two wonderfully bright children
who sit on his knee when listening
to nighty-night, bedtime stories.
Their ringing laughter illuminates
the darkest corners of their happy home.
They'll never know why he needs
to go bye-bye at dangerous evening hours,
hunting sour scowls from passers-by.
He's unkempt: legs unshaven, chin covered
by midnight shadow, beer belly hanging over his
plaid picnic-basket red schoolgirl skirt,
and his face sags as if a topical novocaine
was applied generously to his chubby, rosy cheeks.
Upon seeing his aimless strut
and dead-to-self eyes, I wonder: Where does he dress?
Does he put his outfit on from plastic grocery bag
around the block from the lamp-lit looks of
the neighbors' friendly daytime greetings?
More importantly, if I were friend
and was to catch him in the act,
would I say anything?
Darkness calls out the most intriguing creatures.
We're afraid to call them "human beings,"
because being human most certainly
does not look like this.
Or, does it not look like this?
Shadows claw walls around all
because not one body projects light.
There are some who know, and some who appease.
The pigtails hang to his knees as he stares
at the mannequins of pretty women
in the window of the closed department store.
Aug 17, 2012
Aug 17, 2012 at 4:05 AM UTC
Her bed wouldn't release her,
Despite the alarm clock's vicious bite,
had a late one last night,
hey, Jenna,
Mother called,
time to get up honey,
get your *** moving,
and I'll chuck you some money,
maybe get you fast food breakfast,
won't tell you again,
that time was the last.
Jenna fell out of bed,
chucked on her clothes,
looked like a clothes horse,
with a pierced nose,
She wiped on her daily slap,
told the world that school was crap,
wiped on a phoney grin,
Mamma said she must go in,
In a very loud voice,
She spouted,
only thing worth having,
was not education,
but in her classes gangs of boys.
Had enough of dictatorial teachers,
she could still hang out in bed,
learning from dreams,
instead,
She so hated mother's nagging,
practised in old bagging,
She had no yearning for learning,
all she wants to do is sleep!
(C) Livvi
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 5:46 AM UTC
i'm beginning to develop a
schoolgirl crush on you, my dear,
for you make me giggle as if i were
five years old again.
what i feel for you is
a dumbed down version of
a complex mixture of
like,
love,
lust,
and puppy-love infatuation.
i simply do not know what
has gotten into me but
i do know that i'd
love to feel your lips on my own.
i would be delighted to delve deep
into your embrace and
give names to the galaxies that have called
the depths of your eyes
home.
i haven't known you very long and
i have had not the pleasure of feeling
you in person but the pleasure of
hearing your voice pronounce
my name.
just to see you standing in
front of me once
would perhaps give me
some insight as to
how i feel in
regards to you.
or maybe i'll be more
puzzled than I am
as of now.
Aug 31, 2014
Aug 31, 2014 at 8:48 PM UTC
I remember the schoolgirl days
when Sister Anne led us out in rows of
blue and white
[mirrored in
the Dutchware my father painted with
quick, uniform strokes]
to the school garden,
pointed hands to plant the
violets.
We breathed their air,
colonies of their gold dust
settled in our lungs; sometimes
we carved out twin plantlets
to grow in our window.
And for all those years
I never saw the flaking autumn nights
when Sister Anne stooped,
nunnery cast behind a bush;
crushed a violet stem between
2nd and
3rd fingers
lit one end
smoked her eyes
blue.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 10:32 AM UTC
Tepid summer nights and
holes in the soles of your feet.
Holes in your wrists, no?
Soft fluttering of dusted eyelashes and
the pale pink of morning sun as you turn your cheek.
Blushing like a schoolgirl, no?
***** fingertips on dirtied skin and
toothy smiles, moth-eaten pillowcases, stale whispers.
'Pour susurrer des mots doux', non?
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 7:15 PM UTC
Hi
Hey
Hello
One tiny little word
Completely non-threatening
Or so you thought
That's what I thought too
Except for when you say it
I can't handle myself
I see that little window
And hear that 'pop'
And I know you just want to talk
But I can't.
Can't say a **** thing.
Because thanks to you
My brain freezes my thoughts
My breathing becomes irregular
My palms start to sweat
And I start to slightly shake
And just so you know
This is not a normal reaction
Especially for me
These things don't phase me
But you do
How do you do it?
You got under my skin
You make me nervous
You're so ****
And you always know what to say
And it always sounds perfect
Coming from you
In comparison
I feel like a silly schoolgirl
Stumbling over her words
And tripping over her feet
Trying to impress you
But not knowing how to go about it
Hoping that just being myself
Clumsy, childlike, passionate me,
Works for you
You surprise me
And I can't think of what to say
I feel like I need a slap in the face
To pull myself together
I've never had a problem with words before
But I feel out of my element with you
I always have a smart reply
But with you I feel like I lost my voice
Sometimes I feel shy
I am never shy
What are you doing to me?
I don’t understand what's happening
You confuse my body, my mind, my heart
My body wants you
My mind knows I can't have you
My heart doesn't know what to do
To get involved?
Or to not get involved?
That is the question
That my heart has to answer.
But it might not be completely up to me
I fear I may be involved, whether I like it or not
But what's to fear?
Except that I might be in too deep.
Jul 27, 2011
Jul 27, 2011 at 8:12 PM UTC
Sister,
I've been to your chambers,
I've seen that Holy Bible
Kept ***** with your tomes.
I know that you're secretly
A nun, or a Catholic schoolgirl.
But that's impossible,
Because I've never seen you
Flustered pink like
A fragile glass of
Lemonade
On a thirsty,
Sinful,
Sabbath day.
You can't be celibate.
You are way too beautiful for that.
And such beauty left to waste
Is proof enough that my God is
Absent.
He is spending His time
Dodging deadlines to watch
Every move you make.
There are always
Judgments to be made.
I beg of you,
Cleanse this *****
Get on your knees and pray,
But do it slowly.
Kiss the shaft of your Savior
Renounce your title to Him
So we can both go to Heaven.
You might think I'm just a mongrel,
Filthy in the eyes and mind.
Love is a pearl born from nature,
And yours is due to be polished.
-Juan Carlos Gomez
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 2:04 AM UTC
I think that's just fine.
because the length from
chin to jugular vein,
makes me blush like a schoolgirl
in shame.
Thing is, is not fair.
cause my hand'll never touch there.
following from the tips of my fingers.
A deep longing, lingers.
A jawline I fell for.
As soft and sharp as you.
But looking in the mirror,
i'm getting the hint of
one too.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
an anchor of diamonds
reflecting light and beauty
not a crevice or a crack
no sliver of darkness
so perfectly perfect
so beautifully true
i swim to the depths
revel in the shadows
you glisten as you are
a nightlight keeping me safe
how do you stay so bright?
how do you stay so perfect?
i am a child in a library
of toys and imagination
you are patient and forgiving
beaming as i explore
i am with pirates and astronauts
a million miles away
i can feel you, my anchor
my guiding light back home
i am a drunk schoolgirl
suffocating in mistakes
you hold me steady and guide me
hold my hair as i'm disgraced
you allow me this release
no judgements or reproach
i can feel you, my anchor
my guiding light back home
i eclipse your features
still your beauty persists
we trade diamonds and regret
until we are a perfect match
and still you are beautiful
and still so absolute
how do you stay so bright?
how do you stay so perfect?
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 22, 2012 at 8:39 PM UTC
I look at you
And I melt
Like strawberry ice cream
Dropped on a black buckle shoe.
(And you make me cry
Just the same.)
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 11:44 PM UTC
i regret being alive
at seven every morning
on the dot, without a doubt,
when i know
i'm going to be
late for class,
with my english teacher,
who thinks i'm good for nothing;
and my mother
will get called to school,
if it happens
one more time,
and i'm not tired.
i simply want
to tear my hair out,
and
scream,
endlessly.
i regret being alive
when i wake
with a splitting headache,
the million alarms
still ringing
in my head,
all of which i turned off
so i could sleep
through them
without doing
my homework.
and i don't want to cry.
i just want to live in hawaii,
beside the beach,
like a hippie.
another day
of not raising my hand in class,
because i'm shy;
another day
of my grades
getting lower.
i feed the fish
we keep alive
to experiment on.
i see a friend
and we're laughing
in the library.
i water the plants
in our garden
for agriculture class.
sure, i'm tired,
but i'm kind of
happy.
Oct 28, 2016
Oct 28, 2016 at 9:05 PM UTC
.
A prudent young schoolgirl called Lucy
who wanted to do something juicy
along with a dude
undressed herself ****
and stepped in a juice filled Jacuzzi
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
Dedicated to Beverly & ?? [&c., &c., &c.]
[this poem contains multiple characters;
I didn't write any of it, but strangely, it's all true]
She was wearing black leather ankle boots
& torn fishnet stockings;
The top was black and sleeveless,
w/ fishnet covering her stomach
up to the frayed hem of the fabric of the shirt;
All around the room there was a buzz of voices,
all the people seeming a whirl of fishnet stockings,
bright makeup & colorful costumes;
Strutting across the stage removing fishnet stockings,
her long silky legs drawing all the attention;
She was wearing a black tank top,
red tartan mini-skirt w/ fishnet tights & black
leather, knee high boots; Her hair was long
& deep purple & her short skirt
revealed a shaved snooch & gorgeous legs clad in fishnet stockings;
The black fishnet top, and the tight t-shirt
with the skull on it were quite perfect for the occasion;
I opened my eyes and found myself staring up at the pair of legs
in knee high boots & red fishnet stockings
beneath a red and white schoolgirl skirt [the woman wearing them old
enough to be my grandmother]. PVC, fishnet,
rubber, Lycra, velvet & lace
were worked into corsets, coats & masks; Finally she settled on a black corset dress,
her skull necklace & black combat boots
that went up to her shin & black fishnet tights;
She stomped her way across the room,
grabbed me painfully by the arms
w/ her black fishnet sleeves
& ruffled collar shirt & planted a kiss on me;
she wore black fishnet stockings & stilettos
that wobbled underneath her feet as she stepped;
She then stepped into a long
black skirt, and w/out much effort,
managed to get into her black fishnet stockings;
I pulled out a black long dress,
black fishnet stockings & see-through undershirt;
but she was already dressed in a short denim skirt,
black fishnet stockings and high red sandals,
& she was wearing a blood red tank top,
black miniskirt & fishnet stockings;
She was fairly small, about 5 ft. even,
appearing only slightly tall in sling-back stilettos
& fishnet stockings w/ a red tube top
w/ black mesh on top of it;
I looked down at her short tartan skirt
& bare feet in fishnet stockings, her black nail polish
looking good, so was her ripped black tank top:
I gathered the long dress in one hand,
pulling the material up as far as her waist,
revealing the black fishnet stocking tops
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 1:33 AM UTC
I'm the mistress of emotion
I try to avoid his eye during the day
pretending I've never seen him before
but the truth is I'm at his every beck and call.
Just you wait and see,
I promise you he'll appear in the doorway
flashing his enticing smile
just when I'm trying to fall asleep.
I have a crush on love
but we've never met me before
I watch him from afar in the schoolyard
yet I've never made a move
I need to stop worrying and waiting
for him to introduce himself.
I'm the assistant of suppression
I help him with his careful work
I fold all of my fears and pains
and make them fit into tiny boxes
so they can be stored away on a basement shelf
and someday found again to open with surprise
forcing me to finally deal with everything inside.
-kk
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC