"skivvy" poems - Hello Poetry

In winter I bundle up tight in layers of warmth Like a love I've never felt Draping scarf over hoody over sweater over skivvy The wind bites my button nose and reminds me of a love A love I know too well Bitter cold brief sickening and harsh I catch my eye in an ice smitten mirror and I'm torn My eyes look like hell How could anyone love me like warmth and fall For this fat face of shame, tears and freckles Even if they do They'll never tell.

0

May 4, 2015

May 4, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC

lachrymose-and-lies

Fat Face

In winter I bundle up tight in layers of warmth Like a love I've never felt Draping scarf over hoody over sweater over skivvy The wind bites my button nose and reminds me of a love A love I know too well Bitter cold brief sickening and harsh I catch my eye in an ice smitten mirror and I'm torn My eyes look like hell How could anyone love me like warmth and fall For this fat face of shame, tears and freckles Even if they do They'll never tell.

12

Beat the rhythm empty hand, Iron cast chains rattles command. Ol' Boss Hogg, baton raised Self righteous fool has need of praise. In order that he gain acclaim, thinks with hate, acts with shame. Human beings, commodity, ships hold stacked with those once free. Bodies piled upon high you will not see the strong ones die. Scars embedded on their backs chained and shackled to the racks. We deal in branded breathing stock, Unload black vassal from our docks. Beat the rhythm empty hands. Iron cast chains in far off lands. We keep our skivvy, wired hair blacks. We work them hard, we score their backs. They do for us, they work the field. Grow the cotton, pick the yield. Keep the body, take the mind. Labour whatever's left behind. And if demeanour does ever flinch. We'll introduce you Willie Lynch. Beat the rhythm. Empty hands Iron cast chains. Unfair demands. Beat the rhythm, shackled feet. We take their worst but can't be beat.

0

Jul 19, 2015

Jul 19, 2015 at 6:20 PM UTC

christopher-k-bayliss

Dixieland Chant

Beat the rhythm empty hand, Iron cast chains rattles command. Ol' Boss Hogg, baton raised Self righteous fool has need of praise. In order that he gain acclaim, thinks with hate, acts with shame. Human beings, commodity, ships hold stacked with those once free. Bodies piled upon high you will not see the strong ones die. Scars embedded on their backs chained and shackled to the racks. We deal in branded breathing stock, Unload black vassal from our docks. Beat the rhythm empty hands. Iron cast chains in far off lands. We keep our skivvy, wired hair blacks. We work them hard, we score their backs. They do for us, they work the field. Grow the cotton, pick the yield. Keep the body, take the mind. Labour whatever's left behind. And if demeanour does ever flinch. We'll introduce you Willie Lynch. Beat the rhythm. Empty hands Iron cast chains. Unfair demands. Beat the rhythm, shackled feet. We take their worst but can't be beat.

56

grow a beard... buy a jazz double-bass... start stroking it... attempt to look pensive... and then write some Cockney comedy... and? **** Oxford. **** 'em good; can't be, ******* arsed... where's a ******* jazz double bass the kind i need to stand up to play?! where?! gone, "nowhere"... Achilles would sooner find a tortoise, you ******* half-whit bull bullock base catcher... yummy yummy... no ******* double whammy if there ain't a greasy dough nnnnnnnn in my mouth oozing a squid's mating call... from the Jules Verne estimate of how... big the ******* could become... oh please... **** is a conjunction word... akin to and... spew effect, regurgitation, founded upon... so... so... farting in a public place is less offensive than uttering a word of oath?! **** me... more **** less ***** images... i guess that's how you habitually attack Christian h'america... **** **** **** and impose a curb of a ***** show me the puppies kitchen ***** Kentucky style **** ******* wankers... dreaming up some **** in long lost Cockney rhyming slang for some: willkommen zu verirrt amstetten... .................... ................................... .............. ................ SCHMILE... boorish ******* gnomes dancing the leprechaun gamblers' dance... skivvy ************* sure... censor the words... but god forbid you censor showing all the ******* because... if you do? guess what... i might forget my farming impulse... of imagining a a cleavage to also imply a pork buttocks... funny... how a show of cleavage is synonymous with a show of pork buttocks... and then i begin thinking of milking... which throws a ***** **** out with the baby and the bathwater and... i'm shinging... what's that name of the place?! New Orleans! yeah... like some minstrel in that part of the world that part of the world that's a ******** what?! you spew on me... i spew on you... we can at least exchange... what we "love" about each other... but i implore! i implore! visit Warsaw! alone... no, not with other people... ah-loan - a-l-o-n-e.... i'll be your companion, when you peer at your shadow, and attempt, to pretend, to disappear.

0

Sep 11, 2018

Sep 11, 2018 at 8:48 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

Wankers United

grow a beard... buy a jazz double-bass... start stroking it... attempt to look pensive... and then write some Cockney comedy... and? **** Oxford. **** 'em good; can't be, ******* arsed... where's a ******* jazz double bass the kind i need to stand up to play?! where?! gone, "nowhere"... Achilles would sooner find a tortoise, you ******* half-whit bull bullock base catcher... yummy yummy... no ******* double whammy if there ain't a greasy dough nnnnnnnn in my mouth oozing a squid's mating call... from the Jules Verne estimate of how... big the ******* could become... oh please... **** is a conjunction word... akin to and... spew effect, regurgitation, founded upon... so... so... farting in a public place is less offensive than uttering a word of oath?! **** me... more **** less ***** images... i guess that's how you habitually attack Christian h'america... **** **** **** and impose a curb of a ***** show me the puppies kitchen ***** Kentucky style **** ******* wankers... dreaming up some **** in long lost Cockney rhyming slang for some: willkommen zu verirrt amstetten... .................... ................................... .............. ................ SCHMILE... boorish ******* gnomes dancing the leprechaun gamblers' dance... skivvy ************* sure... censor the words... but god forbid you censor showing all the ******* because... if you do? guess what... i might forget my farming impulse... of imagining a a cleavage to also imply a pork buttocks... funny... how a show of cleavage is synonymous with a show of pork buttocks... and then i begin thinking of milking... which throws a ***** **** out with the baby and the bathwater and... i'm shinging... what's that name of the place?! New Orleans! yeah... like some minstrel in that part of the world that part of the world that's a ******** what?! you spew on me... i spew on you... we can at least exchange... what we "love" about each other... but i implore! i implore! visit Warsaw! alone... no, not with other people... ah-loan - a-l-o-n-e.... i'll be your companion, when you peer at your shadow, and attempt, to pretend, to disappear.

104

My name is Haley Gilarwald and I am a force of nature. Not too long ago, the stink bugs invaded our city Unlike aliens or the usual sort, these were just plague. Like swarms of locusts they came, but they never seemed to eat, rarely seemed to die. They just clustered. And wings, sounding like B-52 bombers, they rattled around the bare watt bulbs and roared, and I Swear to Jesus God Drove everyone here mad. I hate the little ******** I sit in my room, typing a dreadful paper for a dreadful class when that hell sound shows up. (my floors, they are hardwood!) and so I stood notebook in hand and skivvy clad I played tennis with the swarming thing they do not die! like men, they only keep coming back little war machines buzzing at my discontent NO MATTER HOW MANY I FLUSH, THEY ALWAYS COME BACK THE SAME. (I am certain that they cannot die.)

0

May 19, 2013

May 19, 2013 at 9:38 PM UTC

christine-eglantine

Underwear Clad Warrior

My name is Haley Gilarwald and I am a force of nature. Not too long ago, the stink bugs invaded our city Unlike aliens or the usual sort, these were just plague. Like swarms of locusts they came, but they never seemed to eat, rarely seemed to die. They just clustered. And wings, sounding like B-52 bombers, they rattled around the bare watt bulbs and roared, and I Swear to Jesus God Drove everyone here mad. I hate the little ******** I sit in my room, typing a dreadful paper for a dreadful class when that hell sound shows up. (my floors, they are hardwood!) and so I stood notebook in hand and skivvy clad I played tennis with the swarming thing they do not die! like men, they only keep coming back little war machines buzzing at my discontent NO MATTER HOW MANY I FLUSH, THEY ALWAYS COME BACK THE SAME. (I am certain that they cannot die.)

26

It's love for the love of love Are you a crazy love woman skivvy to the scourge of happiness that jealous sister of hatred who keeps herself who gives herself for the love of love. Well, you've been had it's the epic travesty our nature, corseted into words and sermons contorted to fit more moral mouths than mine. ******* moralist hypocrites. I'l show you love when I shove that love where the sun don't shine. Always thinking of you Happy Valentines.

0

Sep 29, 2010

Sep 29, 2010 at 7:45 PM UTC

hugh-lovzewe

Crazy, Love Woman

It's love for the love of love Are you a crazy love woman skivvy to the scourge of happiness that jealous sister of hatred who keeps herself who gives herself for the love of love. Well, you've been had it's the epic travesty our nature, corseted into words and sermons contorted to fit more moral mouths than mine. ******* moralist hypocrites. I'l show you love when I shove that love where the sun don't shine. Always thinking of you Happy Valentines.

19

Tall and white, The Stanley stands atop a hill with might. A place of beauty and grandeur, a place of mystery and wonder. Spirits haunt and roam these halls, the whispers of old heard through the walls. There's Mrs. Wilson sweet and polite, but watch out unmarried couples, she'll give you a fright! Lord Dunraven with his skivvy ways; the children love to laugh and play. Mr. Stanley is seen among the billiards; he's still here checking in on his famous figures. Mrs. Stanley's here too, still playing her piano. She loves it here, her own private Americana. This place is so much more than "The Shining Hotel." It's a home for those entities not ready to say farewell.

0

Jun 10, 2014

Jun 10, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC

dani-dahle

The Stanley

Tall and white, The Stanley stands atop a hill with might. A place of beauty and grandeur, a place of mystery and wonder. Spirits haunt and roam these halls, the whispers of old heard through the walls. There's Mrs. Wilson sweet and polite, but watch out unmarried couples, she'll give you a fright! Lord Dunraven with his skivvy ways; the children love to laugh and play. Mr. Stanley is seen among the billiards; he's still here checking in on his famous figures. Mrs. Stanley's here too, still playing her piano. She loves it here, her own private Americana. This place is so much more than "The Shining Hotel." It's a home for those entities not ready to say farewell.

9

The Lady Mary had locked the door And called the scullery maid, The Boots was called and the Footman, So they thought they were being paid, She lined them up with the Butler, The Housemaid, skivvy and Cook, ‘You’re not to go wandering out the door, Not even to take a look!’ She knew her word, though the very law, Was never to go down well, For Alice was sweet on a lawyer’s clerk, A lockdown seemed like hell. The Footman needed his racing mates To place a bet on the book, So the Lady Mary had made it plain, ‘Not even a peep or a look!’ The grumbling went with the Cook downstairs As they stood, and waited for tea, ‘It’s all very well for the likes of her, There’s places I have to be!’ ‘Enough of this nonsense,’ the Butler said, ‘We’re lucky to grace her floor, If you want to leave in a fit of peeve You’ll never get back in the door.’ They huddled down for a week or more It was better than paying rent, But a silence settled on every floor For nobody came, or went, The pantry shelves were emptying out But the tradesmen never came, ‘We’re going to starve,’ was the one lament When they ate the last of the game. The Footman called the Scullery Maid And they huddled up on a pew, ‘If you sneak out for an hour tonight, Then I will cover for you, And you can visit your lawyer’s clerk Then place a bet on the book, I’ll let you in when it’s nice and dark…’ ‘I will, by hook or by crook!’ She slipped on out by the kitchen door And he turned the key in the lock, Watched the Butler heading for bed And sat by the kitchen clock. At ten o’clock, with a tiny tap She had made her prescence felt, And tumbled in as he opened the door, Went straight to the hearth, and knelt. He locked the door, then he heard her sob And saw that her head was bent, She stared so long and hard at the floor That he thought his bet was spent. ‘What ails you Alice, now what went wrong, Don’t give me none of your lies!’ She looked up into his face just then And he saw blood stream from her eyes!’ ‘They’re dead, all dead,’ were the words she said As her tears had mixed with the blood, Your racing pals and my lawyers clerk, And the horses, down at the stud. The Lady Mary, she should have said…’ But he cut her off right there, Leapt up, unlocking the kitchen door He dragged her out by her hair. He locked the door and he scrubbed his hands But he’d locked the beast within, As blood then streamed from his Footman’s eyes And he earned the wages of sin. The Lady Mary came down the stair To find him, dead on the floor, And said to the Cook, with blood red eyes, ‘You’d best fling open the door!’ David Lewis Paget

0

Jan 3, 2015

Jan 3, 2015 at 11:58 PM UTC

david-lewis-paget

The Wages of Sin

The Lady Mary had locked the door And called the scullery maid, The Boots was called and the Footman, So they thought they were being paid, She lined them up with the Butler, The Housemaid, skivvy and Cook, ‘You’re not to go wandering out the door, Not even to take a look!’ She knew her word, though the very law, Was never to go down well, For Alice was sweet on a lawyer’s clerk, A lockdown seemed like hell. The Footman needed his racing mates To place a bet on the book, So the Lady Mary had made it plain, ‘Not even a peep or a look!’ The grumbling went with the Cook downstairs As they stood, and waited for tea, ‘It’s all very well for the likes of her, There’s places I have to be!’ ‘Enough of this nonsense,’ the Butler said, ‘We’re lucky to grace her floor, If you want to leave in a fit of peeve You’ll never get back in the door.’ They huddled down for a week or more It was better than paying rent, But a silence settled on every floor For nobody came, or went, The pantry shelves were emptying out But the tradesmen never came, ‘We’re going to starve,’ was the one lament When they ate the last of the game. The Footman called the Scullery Maid And they huddled up on a pew, ‘If you sneak out for an hour tonight, Then I will cover for you, And you can visit your lawyer’s clerk Then place a bet on the book, I’ll let you in when it’s nice and dark…’ ‘I will, by hook or by crook!’ She slipped on out by the kitchen door And he turned the key in the lock, Watched the Butler heading for bed And sat by the kitchen clock. At ten o’clock, with a tiny tap She had made her prescence felt, And tumbled in as he opened the door, Went straight to the hearth, and knelt. He locked the door, then he heard her sob And saw that her head was bent, She stared so long and hard at the floor That he thought his bet was spent. ‘What ails you Alice, now what went wrong, Don’t give me none of your lies!’ She looked up into his face just then And he saw blood stream from her eyes!’ ‘They’re dead, all dead,’ were the words she said As her tears had mixed with the blood, Your racing pals and my lawyers clerk, And the horses, down at the stud. The Lady Mary, she should have said…’ But he cut her off right there, Leapt up, unlocking the kitchen door He dragged her out by her hair. He locked the door and he scrubbed his hands But he’d locked the beast within, As blood then streamed from his Footman’s eyes And he earned the wages of sin. The Lady Mary came down the stair To find him, dead on the floor, And said to the Cook, with blood red eyes, ‘You’d best fling open the door!’ David Lewis Paget

73

Gonna go back a few years Back when clothes came from Sears Nineties life revolved behind some handle bars A few years away from driving cars A few more from sipping at the bars Trying with all our hearts to salvage those moments of pretend But the time is here for it to end I fear Dennis and I prepare for one more neighborhood war I raid the water balloons and paint ***** from my skivvy drawer We go to Max's Video for a battle plan Maybe some tips to take out a vampire clan Step inside and see the back curtain What's behind, we are not certain Clerk is gone at a glance Pull it back, take a chance Please be kind Press rewind Leave your childhood behind

0

Dec 4, 2014

Dec 4, 2014 at 7:21 AM UTC

josh-bass

Max's Video

Gonna go back a few years Back when clothes came from Sears Nineties life revolved behind some handle bars A few years away from driving cars A few more from sipping at the bars Trying with all our hearts to salvage those moments of pretend But the time is here for it to end I fear Dennis and I prepare for one more neighborhood war I raid the water balloons and paint ***** from my skivvy drawer We go to Max's Video for a battle plan Maybe some tips to take out a vampire clan Step inside and see the back curtain What's behind, we are not certain Clerk is gone at a glance Pull it back, take a chance Please be kind Press rewind Leave your childhood behind

19

there is a stretching vein in the minutes of my life, shaved and unsaved with every drag from a cigarette, line of ******* or sip of winey-alcohol. there is a moment left unseen and soon severed, 20 / 40 / 60 / 80 years down the road. I don't mind-- I've got the lungs of an angel, long run, beast on the skivvy. I've got a mind like a bottle of sand, scratch-scratch, lest we get the questions in the little book you didn't mean to purchase back before you knew your fifth grade teacher could make kids as real as you c'est la vie / & creeks would run the blood like broken-facet-dream-containers -- so you kept on waking up, j'st screaming at the void

0

May 14, 2014

May 14, 2014 at 5:21 PM UTC

softcomponent

rock-on, little dream bird

there is a stretching vein in the minutes of my life, shaved and unsaved with every drag from a cigarette, line of ******* or sip of winey-alcohol. there is a moment left unseen and soon severed, 20 / 40 / 60 / 80 years down the road. I don't mind-- I've got the lungs of an angel, long run, beast on the skivvy. I've got a mind like a bottle of sand, scratch-scratch, lest we get the questions in the little book you didn't mean to purchase back before you knew your fifth grade teacher could make kids as real as you c'est la vie / & creeks would run the blood like broken-facet-dream-containers -- so you kept on waking up, j'st screaming at the void

18