"showroom" poems
Flicking through your magazine,
you want that perfect face.
Put it on your credit card,
become the perfect Wife.
May as well go the extra mile,
book yourself in for a new hairstyle.
Get your nails done,
you might as well.
Something bright
so your friends can tell.
What did it all cost?
You went too far but at least you
look like your favourite star.
After all, let's have no doubt.
To look like this is what
life's about.
Isn't it??
Poetry by Kaydee.
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 4:48 AM UTC
The car showroom warehouse unit has turned into a gym overnight.
Low lit lights
highlight the out-of-work-early
joggers and the two step, bought-a-new-ipod-for-this-run, sweaty runners.
Framed central in the glass,
they bounce on mountain passes
over Swiss clear rivers and
around back through
obscure European cities,
all whilst on the spot listening
to Radio 4 podcasts from the week before.
Low cut tops offer no support for the weary
and the lifting gloves of the man
at the back are fingerless and ripped,
unlike his overweight torso, though
his BMW makes him believe that
this warehouse unit on the outskirts of
Huddersfield is the Venice beach of the North.
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC
The truth is that life isn’t fair– it isn’t, but “you do the best you can” – at least that’s what I’ve been told.
The truth is I don’t even know which one of ‘me’ is real and I’m scared of the many times I leave my body and can no longer communicate, it makes me feel unsafe and the truth is it happens every single night.
The truth is I’m scared all the time because at any minute I could change into someone else and bad things can happen.
The truth is every single night my body aches with sharp and persistent pain, and I cannot rest, or find comfort. And the truth is I prefer not to be present when the pain becomes unbearable.
The truth is I feel overwhelmed with the chaos inside my head and the pain in my body – and the truth is I know that no one will be there, so why would I even ‘write’ how it feels anymore?
The truth is DT has no idea what happens now because the truth I don’t think he really wants to know and he wants to believe that because I don’t ‘email’ him or leave him a ‘voicemail’ that I must be doing better. Good Job, Nita, you are doing such a great job navigating through the pain, in a much “healthier” way. But the truth is he doesn’t know anything about my “nightly navigation”.
The truth is no one wanted to know the TRUTH then, and no one wants to know it now. No one wants to see, or hear, about a man fu@#ing a kid. Because the TRUTH is that it’s disgusting and revolting, and horrifying…and the thought really turns the stomach of anyone who hears it. And the truth is, if it makes you feel that way to hear it, then imagine how disgusting it feels to be a kid who was fu@#ed.
The truth is I scared as hell that one day I will seriously hurt or **** myself. Because the truth is that we do tend to hurt and **** ourselves, and if ‘one’ of us does it – the rest of us are scared as hell that it will happen to another survivor!
The truth – the truth is a journey into madness…and you can’t handle my ‘truth’. Because your truth and my truth are WAY to different…
The truth is I’m not that scarred when I’m covered up – and the truth is no one wants to see those scars because it’s uncomfortable and perhaps a reality check that the world really is fu@#ed up – and adults really do f@#k kids – and people like me really do hurt themselves and **** themselves.
The truth is everyone ignores what isn’t “spoken” and the truth is everyone is shocked as hell when the unspeakable happens.
The truth is “I” am not the one with the blinders on. And the truth is you don’t see me now because you don’t want to see me. Because you WANT to believe that I’m doing “better” as a result of your “boundaries” and “limits” (what a good doctor you are!- pure genius…she finally ‘accepts’ the limitations –and as a result huge sigh she’s doing so much better) – but the truth is you don’t know because you don’t ask, and you don’t ask because you don’t want to know- because it’s not pretty and it certainly isn’t something you see in a showroom window.
And the truth is you don’t know what my reality is because you don’t want to know, you don’t want to see. Because my reality is covered up with clothing, eyes that hide the truth, the ability to use humor to hide even the most painful feelings, and a bright smile.
And that’s okay – but really….your truth and my truth are as far apart as Earth and Venus.
Smile Pretty for the Camera, Nita ...that's "perfect."
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 7:20 PM UTC
This is for those hemp clad allotment dwelling new-age professionals,
riding the crest of an organic wine wave,
with heads tilted so far back,
showing off their vanilla white, Dulux painted nostril showroom.
11am, it's not too early,
community centre trip,
twisting and stretching,
kneading and rolling eighteen-month old Oscar into a morally righteous,
gluten-free,
linseed loaf of faux intelligensia.
Tofu and thai veg stirfry please,
healthy and nutriousness,
Nah!
it's greasy and delicious.
Cultured, not truly,
it's Anglicized cuisine really.
Less like a political activist,
more like the organic bourgeoisie.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 8:10 AM UTC
181 to 200 of 3251 Poets
«891011»Viewsshow detailshide detailsSort by
Joelle Biele
To Katharine: At Fourteen Months
Veronica Patterson
Marry Me
Rick Campbell
Heart
Mary-Sherman Willis
The Laughter of Women
Sharmila Voorakkara
For the Tattooed Man
Max Mendelsohn
Ode to Marbles
Jonathan Holden
Car Showroom
David Tucker
The Dancer
Today’s News
Marianne Boruch (b. 1950)
It includes the butterfly and the rat, the ****
Some dreamily smoke cigarettes, some track
Trish Dugger
Spare Parts
Carrie Shipers
Medical History
Love Poem for Ted Neeley In Jesus Christ Superstar
Steven Huff
Safe
Lee McCarthy
Santa Paula
William Kloefkorn
"I stand alone at the foot "
Jackson Wheeler
How Good Fortune Surprises Us
Steven Orlen (1942–2010)
Three Teenage Girls: 1956
In the House of the Voice of Maria Callas
Steven Schneider
Chanukah Lights Tonight
Jessy Randall
Superhero Pregnant Woman
Anne Pierson Wiese (b. 1964)
Inscrutable Twist
Columbus Park
Regina DeSalva
Snip Your Hair
«891011»
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 9:02 PM UTC
Prosperity in city and country, see
the light under the clouds in the showroom
of earthly paradise, see
a glimpse of ourselves
in the looks of those days
the beauty of their attention
their desires
in younger years of the world –
the same as ours
We process and preserve
we build and improve
we create the beauty
in which we want to live
Here it is collected, see
it is good
Apr 28, 2021
Apr 28, 2021 at 3:22 AM UTC
So likewise ye,
when ye shall have done
all those things which are commanded you,
say,
We are unprofitable servants:
we have done that which was our duty to do.
You, lazy little 'twerdnerd. Easy. Live. Take my truth,
let this mind be in you, it does the hard part for you.
Ai ai ai this guy, I tol' you, extol the road,
ride on, cowboy.
Let go. Re
laxation,
enemystic, plop. Plot to end
with a thousand swings
gnosis-not-burger 'n' fries
swung wide and low. Sweet cherry '63.
Once belonged to the gayest geometry teacher
ever, eh, in Kingman, Arizona.
Mr. Zubek, annual faculty advisor to Optimist Club,
Annual (also)Highschool Boys Speech Contest,
bi- annually, he traded in his Chevrolet.
-- voice of experience,
That triggered this then, not now
I saw a ****** lowrider, brand new, showroom floor,
yep, a certain mind set, kept with odd links,
missed opportunities to go the other way,
kicks the BTDT system of old ahas,
and ahs,
as once imagined…
not possible, pre dementia.
Wait for it, should you live so long,
it all runs together beautifully, to match
the beauty of the messenger's feet,
in your cultural awareness
of total unknowing- to eternity,
and beyond.
The Bill and Ted Trilogy, vs Left Behind.
So, crates of lemons have no thorns. See,
Lemon trees have big ol' thorns, but
lemon wreaths, all on a bough snipped,
thorns and all, to show those who never
picked a lemon, and won life's sweetest point.
Such wreaths are December treasures,
if you know where they grow 'em.
You can sell them, or give them away,
the beauty in the whole fruiting sprig goes along.
May 8, 2023
May 8, 2023 at 1:27 AM UTC
you are post-apocalyptic
cluttered with debris
ruins
under siege,
destructive.
you are filled with nothing but smoke,
I fight for you,
search for one flash of light,
for one hidden memory of brightness within you:
the lights are gone at Yonge & Bloor
the 501 to Roncesvalles has disappeared
the condo showroom at King and Blue Jays Way
is no longer filled with your hands on my hips.
you are empty,
vacant,
save for the souls of those who choose to remind me
of days long forgotten:
a hand grasped at Harbourfront,
tears littering the patchy expanse of Bellwoods,
your laugh at Queen and Dufferin.
you are a nightmare;
a poltergeist,
you are breathless
and soulless
and hopeless:
nothing
you are cavernous
Toronto –
so encompassing,
you will cut me in half
before I heal
and gain
the desire
to fight
to stay.
Oct 30, 2014
Oct 30, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC
Da queste parti .siamo tutti circa il vestito bianco;questo non è un segreto .Ma oggi ?Stiamo celebrando i nostri ragazzi !SMPers .lasciate che vi presento clothier personalizzato .Alton Lane.Dotato di abiti da sposa on line sposi e dei loro ragazzi un processo di adattamento e di divertimento senza stress .sta preparando per il grande giorno è appena diventato infinitamente più facile !
C'è così tanto per amore di Alton Lane;iniziando con laid-back .appuntamenti privati per gli
sposi + i loro ragazzi dove ognuno si misura e montato .il tutto sorseggiando un drink .sdraiati su un comodo divano e guardare la partita sul grande schermo piatto .Con showroom a Dallas .New York .DC .Boston .Richmond + più a venire .Alton Lane.riduce la necessità di raccordi con l'uso del loro top di gamma tecnologia 3D body scanner !Un consulente personale farà in modo che la misura è giusta e avrete consigli su opzioni di personalizzazione come il taglio .sfiati .pieghe .monogrammi e colore rivestimentoètutti che è incluso nel prezzo base!Con camicie a abiti da sposa 2014 partire da 89 dollari e abiti abiti da sposa on line a solo $ 595.personalizzate non è mai stato così conveniente .
Con una straordinaria selezione di colori dei tessuti e pesi .Alton Lane.ha coperto se stai andando cravatta sulla spiaggia casuale o nero.Head over qui per suggerimenti personalizzati della Guida look e donè èperdere alcuni dei Alton Lane ' matrimoni reali presenti !
Photo Credits : Fotografia Ciao Amore | Brooke Fitts | Melissa Grimes - Guy Fotografia
Ciao Fotografia L'amore è un membro del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Ciao Amore Fotografia VIEW
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Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 9:54 PM UTC
Where her preponderance takes over rainbows will overtaketh thy dark cloud, the phantism of her queen screen projection is for all to daydream of!!! What a riddle shell leave you upon thy emptied tray, her mysticism and mystification can leave a bruise upon thy name!!! An atlas of lost time, shell pursue to all oceanic depths, a mall thief of unbelief, she just could pile all thou has left!!!! An intensive heart throb to maximum proportions, she will jeer you to distortion if thouest forget her special occasions!!!
How lovely is thy own grass when it withers? Still leaving behind sheers of myrtle grove? She will dissavow your heated warm loathe.... Discerning one, disclose me all the way, where is thy key to ones disorderly dungeon? The embellishment to all real estate!!!!
One whom I can fascinate and rellish to mine and hers own doings!!!!!!!
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 9:55 PM UTC
The old red car
sat alone in his garage
pondering his likely disposition..
Odometers don’t lie
and his said he’d
seen some miles.
There was some body rust
defacing his red paint.
He was out of warrantee
and as he could plainly see
there were newer, flashier
models now about.
Still, his battery was strong,
plenty tread left on his tires
and his CD/stereo still
sounded great..
Would he be sold to another,
less considerate owner
who would make him
spend his old age
on the street?
Would he be towed off to the
dump?
his parts salvaged by some chump?
Would he end up crushed and
melted by the man?
If so, when the metal cooled,
would he find himself retooled
in a showroom ready
for the road again?
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 9:52 AM UTC
As i shape stanzas, Adam Lanzas **** the cameras, in glamorous stands up, against the manners of actors, in the matters of forgotten factors, in a world gone bananas, I still cant stand us, even when we are dead.
I have tried every side of the bed to no diligence unchecked, in a nervous wreck of annoyance coining in and destroying it, for a bonus, its bogus to know us, but i'm owning it yet, with no regrets and loose concepts to be swept to ***** and on my feet.
I'm obsolete, and my talk is cheaper than most, as i host my feats in a single page, post heathen faze incomplete, as it is only so lonely in the frozen face of flattery, where i may fill my battery, but nothing more, in boring affordability, storing dreams for safe keeping to a later day that may never be, but hey, what does it matter anyway, i will either be, or not be.
I may be just lapsing in luxury, rupturing the subtlety of my structuring around the scars of brain parts too far to reach.
Lets meet on middle grounds with silent screams and loose eyes, fiddling the sounds and singing for the criers, expiring behind less than inspiring doors.
I am just bored, praising the lords of a more recordable source, reliably on course, with a deplorable force, endorsing the chores of servitude, never meaning to be rude, as i enjoy my solitude, while in the employ of the gratitude for what i got, but im not...
That boy anymore, my wonder turned wandering and i will never be that baby again, nor alone, so let go, in knowing the flow can be trusted in showing us something more, said the slave to his ***** before a morbid torrent to show her core to the floor of a showroom, vacuumed into space, awakening to the fate, of monotonous finality, praying to randomly generated gods, for the fogs of war... or anthing more, than this.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
balancing now first time, although the coins don’t quite
fit the tray, using the pointed pen, keeping neatly.
have done this a while, got the rhythm,
the style of dressage and deportment
for one of our station.
i don’t have a badge, so
look with confidence, courage
so they know. i quickly
fold tidily, imagine i am japanese
and check my hips in the showroom mirror.
i work on sundays, except
when i go on thursday.
so being monday, now
i change the bed.
carry on with the domestics.
sbm.
Jun 17, 2013
Jun 17, 2013 at 1:35 AM UTC
I wish for stars that aren't even ours
far more than showroom cars way past par
I wish for hope & dreams to rearrange
to be free from falling apart
for every day to disengage
between all that we love to hate
I wish we could turn around
just to come back 360
Full swing lord you must forgive we
the people you set sail & to see
how inglorious is he
who takes from unforgivable greed
envious thus proceed unfeasible tangiblities
so dense, we cannot see much sense
so we heal in hope that bleeds
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 7:18 PM UTC
electric guitar
screaming
growling
what a rush
frenzied
adrenaline
stirs madness
deep inside
alcohol fueled
new design
on display
showroom shine
old demons
shackled
pierced anger
naive tongues
eyes watch
from windows
stalking pain
stifled witness
homegrown
dysfunction
killing
innocence
broken pieces
collected
stored in an
empty bottle
waiting for
perfect timing
to be made
whole again
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 2:22 AM UTC
Appetizing morsels of snack food leftovers, jammed down the throats of the gathering’s well-meaning occupants, trapped in place, paralyzed by purchasing power, co-mingling amongst a gossamer of plague ridden staff, exercising their right to a paltry sum, at the cost of worldly dignity.
Tupperware auctioned off at a silent word, while women with crow’s feet crevices compile layers of expensive, foundry concealer, birthing a new, more melancholic Pagliacci, only to be outdone by the next in line.
Sound equipment, purchased over market value, placed on the showroom floor, mechanically regurgitating a playlist of old hits as broken hips slaughter the concept of rhythm and cadence, dancing for their youth, embarrassed by their age.
Late husband’s life insurance, blown on a new make-up line tested on Lassie, bought for the sake of a cost-free gift, which would have the woman’s palm eaten out by a monetarily starved charlatan, rented out on an hourly basis.
Sprayed odors, mixing and merging as they meet on the undersides of veiny wrists, fumigating the stale air, weakening the legs of the participants, dropping them to the floor as sequenced lights illuminate in time with an ancient billboard tune.
Eight o’clock bedtime, difficult to impose, when giddy patrons stay drunk on the bliss of over-spending, knocking off to a land of nod in unmonitored broom closets, clutching at their purchases with the vigor of a lowly man in pursuit of his bottle.
The night slows, crawling in turn with a dead clock as it ticks in place, stalemated, flinching, but not forward, only in place.
Lights leave the room, and silence ensues, the visitors leave, weighted down to a lifeless crawl by their numerous, unnecessary purchases in overfilled, non-recyclable shopping bags.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 6:13 PM UTC
what
stands between
a man
and a plan_
crinckles amidst children.
their hands clench to it like **funeral-
fingers** around a showroom rosary.
no-one believes in it.
god is like paperwork
and you are tiptoing now.
but i can hear you
i am coughing up weatherstripping.
i shoot through the gap in the crowd☆
i am reprimanded over a can of soda
she is fuming.
my dress-watch is broken. with nothing to
look at, it turns.to remembering a certain pair
of shoes and an asian supermarket we
used to go
to.
Jan 23, 2017
Jan 23, 2017 at 10:26 PM UTC
Those little scrapes and cuts that eye obtain just from living; often, no, always, unaware from where or wince, or whence....they came, and more oblivious to their invisible departure...but I do notice this:
their stay, for they overstay their welcome....unlike in my youth, these scratches would barely pass the night, and be gone before the next morn....
now I do not know when they come or when they go, but stay and stay and stay. For the skin repairs itself so much slower when you are older....and you think just a little how it ain't no different with the heart cuts 'n scars, fresh and old. Same, you get older, you notice them, can't exactly recollect when you earned them...but
you feel them hanging on to you, as if they came with you when you were new in the showroom.....but didn't show up till whenever
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 3:18 AM UTC
I watch you tend to your eyebrows
in your childhood mirror;
your parent's showroom.
You're not dressed yet.
I fix your necklace, breathe in deep
to smell your perfume.
You once told that settling down
is a kind of fatal error;
papering the walls to your tomb.
I'm staring at clouds,
your eyes are wet.
It's the coming of sleep,
shaped like a mushroom.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 7:51 AM UTC
RECORD: SMELLS LIKE CONTENT
FROGMAN: THE BOOKS
Johnny's: If these systems are upheld by Om-neeshent bEndgineers.
It's helpful to keep in mind that
I don't need a leader.
There is no one that can lead me.
Only I can do that.
Only I can take myself out
of the populated Data Deserts and Doldrums of Ninetbeen.
-- Thrusher Swainson, Bear M.B.
Johnny's: That helps.
It gets pretty wHoley there anyway.
And y'know,
For Ninetbeen thousand years,
Brads and Janets had shewed up
and crashed
and data'd on this forbidden planet,
and now a swishstory of moments expected me to clean up after every One.
I have to wash out and flatten my soopy-brains,
and re-account for every drop of used mental toil.
And I have to toe the bill for nuclear taste
and churned memory banks
and blue-tailed toxic sludge effortlessly received
a regeneration before I was torn.
-- You and Me and Everyone We See
"The two aims of The Parties,
Brads and Janets,
are to conquer the whole reality of The Word
and to relinquish once and for all
the possibility of independent thought.
crushing our brains as they go."
-- Johnny's and Suzy's
Johnny's: But really,
I just don't want to end without a few angerous thoughts,
I say.
It's nothing anymore to have a beautiful stock body and mind.
You see those Johnnys and Suzys that are completely stock Faery,
right out of a Mother's showroom from 1980 to 2000,
I always think:
“what a chaste.”
-- You and Me and Everyone We See
Suzy's: Oh yeah,
and don't forget to
STOP: TURN THOUGHT
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 5:25 PM UTC
This is not
the time
for her
Resume I- I sir____ with love_
Above all___long_____*
What do we write
Web-BITE He's
Beer In The Evening
And She's
All
guaranteed
Good Deeds____
Never love
expired
Marilyn Monroe
**** white dress
going way up in flight
The candle in the wind
I presume
The artist
with all
her heart of
words
Show the rainbow
room
Love Firey Boom
Tulips reading her lips
Her garden Of Eve
Became toxic
Her love needs
to
be beautified
Taking some words
out that were lied
To be justified
Madonna wearing
her bustier
Lady Madona baby
at her breast
I presume she
couldn't
handle
the rest_____*
I assume love for all
poem requiem
The Italian art
of the Colesium
The ((Collegium))
college chicks
There is not fancy
words for spitting
Lady-like gum
I presume humbug
Her heirloom like
her resume's
Worthy every day
a Holiday
Everlasting embossed
fourteen karat gold
paper
Abloom drawing
The many types
of blood
rooms
Disguised costume
The court joined
judge Judy
Suspended resume
Boom all doomed
Nom De Flume
Girly powder room
Slender long
back room
He's her man is
there still room
The showroom
made a mob hit
The bridegrooms
Cornered
nook back
The Gunroom
We need to get
gun control
Save everyone's
soul
Too many
Schools
Loved ones are dying
help one another
So we can live more
Put ourselves
in a better world
The body and mind
Peace
Her resume
is like the
role of dice
May 19, 2018
May 19, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
he wants to know what he collects. he prays. he is blindfolded by the parent he rarely sees. he is taken on foot to an empty showroom only he can imagine. he is hugged. not asked, he goes into detail about his outfit. parent flips through a notebook. parent leaves to find a pencil. outside in a miniature snowstorm another parent throws an egg through the tail end of melancholy.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 8:56 PM UTC
balancing now first time, although the coins don’t quite
fit the tray, using the pointed pen, keeping neatly.
have done this a while, got the rhythm,
the style of dressage and deportment
for one of our station.
i don’t have a badge, so
look with confidence, courage
so they know. i quickly
fold tidily, imagine i am japanese
and check my hips in the showroom mirror.
i work on sundays, except
when i go on thursday.
so being monday, now
i change the bed.
carry on with the domestics.
sbm.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 1:56 AM UTC
balancing now first time, although the coins don’t quite
fit the tray, using the pointed pen, keeping neatly.
have done this a while, got the rhythm,
the style of dressage and deportment
for one of our station.
i don’t have a badge, so
look with confidence, courage
so they know. i quickly
fold tidily, imagine i am japanese
and check my hips in the showroom mirror.
i work on sundays, except
when i go on thursday.
so being monday, now
i change the bed.
carry on with the domestics.
sbm.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 1:35 AM UTC
you roared into the driveway of our southwestern ranch-style house
on a new Kawasaki, all yellow and black
fresh out of the showroom.
our house faced west,
so the big orange sun positioned at your back,
lit up your magnificent silhouette.
how much better?
how much better can my life get?
900 cubic centimeters of raw whining power.
no outstanding warrants for my arrest.
whoa-whoa. whoa whoa.
the pirate's life for me.
I hopped on back of the bike, wrapped my arms around you.
and I sank my face into your hair.
and then I inhaled as deeply as I possibly could.
you were as sweet and delicious as the warm desert air.
and you pointed your headlamp toward the horizon,
we were the one thing in the galaxy god didn't have his eyes on.
900 cc's of raw whining power,
no outstanding warrants for my arrest.
hi ****** dee dee.
god ****
the pirate's life for me!
Dec 22, 2021
Dec 22, 2021 at 2:49 PM UTC