"slippers" poems
In frames as large as rooms that face all ways
And block the ends of streets with giant loaves,
Screen graves with custard, cover slums with praise
Of motor-oil and cuts of salmon, shine
Perpetually these sharply-pictured groves
Of how life should be. High above the gutter
A silver knife sinks into golden butter,
A glass of milk stands in a meadow, and
Well-balanced families, in fine
Midsummer weather, owe their smiles, their cars,
Even their youth, to that small cube each hand
Stretches towards. These, and the deep armchairs
Aligned to cups at bedtime, radiant bars
(Gas or electric), quarter-profile cats
By slippers on warm mats,
Reflect none of the rained-on streets and squares
They dominate outdoors. Rather, they rise
Serenely to proclaim pure crust, pure foam,
Pure coldness to our live imperfect eyes
That stare beyond this world, where nothing's made
As new or washed quite clean, seeking the home
All such inhabit. There, dark raftered pubs
Are filled with white-clothed ones from tennis-clubs,
And the boy puking his heart out in the Gents
Just missed them, as the pensioner paid
A halfpenny more for Granny Graveclothes' Tea
To taste old age, and dying smokers sense
Walking towards them through some dappled park
As if on water that unfocused she
No match lit up, nor drag ever brought near,
Who now stands newly clear,
Smiling, and recognising, and going dark.
18k
We are all ballerinas
Tying our broken, battered toes
Into pretty, pink satin slippers
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 10:20 PM UTC
I hear stories of an ancient land so pure.
I see photographs of bluer than blue skies
over a lake of molten gold.
I drink kahwa flavoured with almond and saffron
and add honey, sweetened by bees from the valley,
my hips swaying in a crewel work on wool skirt.
I hear songs of freedom, I know people who fled.
The muezzin prays for peace over bloodstains and tears
while children still play under walnut trees.
Clouds gather to pray at Shankaracharya Temple
on a mountain dipping its toes into water
while empty shikaras speak of visiting ghosts.
Mothers whose eyes never tire, looking over the sunset
for long lost sons; wives who still lay out their husband’s
slippers on a carpet with frayed edges.
Postmen deliver letters to addresses long abandoned;
a generation of elders, eyes of agate, gnarled fingers, brew tea
surrounded by memories of children killed, daughters *****
I write for all people who live in war.
I write for the age of innocence to return.
I write for soft rain to wash away sin.
I write for the return to reason.
I write for peace to flutter gently through groves
of apricot, almond, apple and walnut.
Feel the pain. Hear the refrain. Smell the emptiness.
This is now. This is now. This is not in the pages
of a fading history text. This is now. This is now.
Nov 6, 2016
Nov 6, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
T'was the night before Christmas
The gifts were all wrapped
When the smell, well...it hit me
Our new puppy had crapped
I knew I could smell it
It was not just a ****
The puppy had dropped one
I awoke with a start
I could hear a slight rustle
As he went to his bed
But, the smell made me nauseous
And it turned my eyes red
I could hear a slight jingle
From the dog tags he wore
It was then that I found it
In the hall, by the door
I had not put on slippers
I had not hit the light
I just hope I could see it
Try as I might
But, as puppy bombs go
this was one for the ages
It had started out loose
And had grown in three stages
My foot found it first
And before I could halt
It was between my toes
And it wasn't his fault
If I'd turned on the light
I'd have seen it, no sweat
But, now, I was hopping
With a foot, brown and wet
I was off to the bathroom
Hopping mad, so to speak
when from out of my bedroom
I heard "What's that reek?"
It was worse than it started
Now, I'd helped it along
It was me, now in trouble
And somehow, that was wrong
Down in the kitchen
I could hear the dog snore
While, I was still hopping
On one foot by the door
My wife, said "go shower"
And clean up the rug
I hopped to the bathroom
And sat down, with a shrug
It was the night before Christmas
I should be out like a log
But, this is my life
Because I own a dog....
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 11:53 PM UTC
she has dangerous thoughts
in her hello kitty slippers
she shines when thouse around her can only sparkle
there are dark angels in her stuffed bear collection
shes a gothic stoner emo-warrior princess
she wants to be heard
and its dreamy things shes gonna say
shes sketched in beautiful ways in my heart
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 4:10 PM UTC
A bit off the heel and a bit off the toe,
It won't hurt very much, and they're pretty, you know.
I've got the perfect pair of shoes for you,
All you need is some fitting- an inch off or two.
A slice of skin here and a little blood there,
These are the most beautiful shoes you could wear.
Let you go? Heavens no!
I admire you so
With your perfect physique
And your delicate feet.
Oh it's only a smidgen, a droplet of blood!
Come now dear, no one's fond of a stick in the mud.
Come- rush to the ball and we'll all have such fun!
On second thought, maybe you, ah... shouldn't run...
It's worth it, though, isn't it? These beautiful shoes.
And darling, they look so exquisite on you.
There now, not so bad, and they fit perfectly,
All you needed was just a little surgery.
Now let's off to the ball and you'll dance all night long.
No silly, don't cry, you've got it all wrong!
I told you- you're beautiful just how you are,
Now come on and stop whining, you don't have to walk far.
But you see, there's no daughter, or stepmom, or shoes.
There's none of those things- there is me and there's you.
And you've got this idea of what I'm s'posed to be,
And as hard as I try, I'm not her, love, I'm me.
I'm afraid that no matter how much pain I bear,
I just don't fit in the shoes you are making me wear.
Mar 31, 2013
Mar 31, 2013 at 7:32 PM UTC
Friday means parties
Friday is coffee
Friday means shopping
Friday is a netflix date with her pillow
And
Blankey...
Friday means long car rides, blasting music with your friends hoping to maybe get that one kiss
Friday is the breakfast club, twisted with easy A with a pinch of 16 candles
Friday means the late night skating rink
Friday is a messy bun with her pink piggy slippers, bringing out those old ugly black glasses
Friday means tight jeans
Friday is a sweater that covers all the way down to her knees
Friday means short shorts and raves
Friday is popcorn on the couch alone (yes, alone)
Friday means selfies
Friday is just a quote
nothing more
Friday means friends
Friday can't even remember her last sleep over
Feb 7, 2014
Feb 7, 2014 at 11:12 AM UTC
Like a gazelle she ballets with gracefulness
Like a ballerina
Dancing to Dance of the Little Swans
With beauty and grace
Oh let me see thy fair face,
Sweet sister of mine
Let me watch you ballet gracefully
Through woods, fields, and meadows
She sleeps soundly in a bed of ferns
Oh sweet sister of mine
With the most prettiest satin wings you ever saw
And a pretty pink flowing gown
And soft pale pink ballet slippers
With the most pristine pink ribbons
Tied around her delicate ankles
She ballets, Oh sister of mine
With a crown of baby rosebuds on her
Head
And rosettes on her gown
She dances with delight, Oh, fair sister of mine
She dances even more beautifully
And gracefully
Than the yellow sunflowers
Of gold that waltz in fields and meadows
Dance for me, Oh fair sister of mine
Dance to me on hills of sublime green
Dance, Oh, beautiful sister of mine
Ballet for me gracefully like the
Lotus ballets upon the sapphire lake
Ballet Oh, sweetest sister of mine
Waltz for me in a field of dancing flowers
Waltz for me, Oh, dear sister of mine
I love you, oh, graceful sister of mine
~Marian~
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 12:46 AM UTC
There is nothing more unsettling
than a teenage Christmas.
The coming of age
when adults find their inner child again
and you have to try and get rid of yours.
11 is fine.
Part of you still believes Santa put the presents under tree.
12 is also okay,
just a little less pixie dust stirs in the stomach on Christmas Eve.
13, 14 and 15 are tricky.
You don't want to look babyish by getting too excited,
so you shrug it off and ask 'Santa' for a mobile phone,
a laptop,
a TV,
until by 15
you ask for the most 'grown up' present of all.
"I just want money."
The words burn your lips and tongue like acid,
a yearning for the sensation of a gift you can unwrap
tugging in your rib cage.
You can't buy that.
16, 17 and 18 are Christmases tinged with nostalgia.
Little ghosts of the younger you run down the stairs on Christmas morning,
feet clad in slippers and Power Rangers pjyamas askew,
whilst you follow in procession,
almost a funeral.
It's not that you don't like Christmas.
It's not that you don't love your family.
It's not that you don't feel a fire light in your belly when you bite into a mince pie,
it's not that the battered Christmas videos your family replay each year don't still make you smile,
it's not even that you've gotten too old for it all.
Have you?
Slippers and tiny fists batter against advent calender doors,
begging you to open them.
When you're 19 you do.
You let them out and let them rush to rip open their presents under the tree.
You let them eat their selection box first before dinner.
You let them cry when the Snowman melts
and you let them laugh and not mock heave when your father chases your mother with mistletoe.
You let the ghosts become holograms you can play in your mind like a projector and slides,
no longer a need to leave holly by their graves
but a chance to remember and smile.
You let them be happy.
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
The beauty of comatose can only be seen through
the eyes of a wizard in a blizzard
strutting in garlic slippers,
or Christ with knees bent at the tabernacle
peeling bananas and kicking prayers
farther than eternity with each gapping second,
or like Basquiat slumped back to the wall,
with ounces of speedball dancing through his veins,
eating 80’s free-based fried chicken *******
as his eyelids paints beautiful nightmares of lemon flowers
and Bacchus bacon over a glycopyrrolate desert
of flagrant cuckold buffoonery.
Or like leprechauns burning chocolate ******* candles
on the mantle of Zion, sipping oatmeal sprinkled
with Staten Island malt liquor bacon.
or like Tupac reading the thoughts of Mother Shipton
through the daze of California cannabis
and hearing the ominous voice of Plutarch sing death assignments
from heaven to Assassins on horsebacks goggling ***** water
to wet the dry bones of their throats as they prepare to fulfill
the gospel of self-fulfilling prophecies of being fell by ***** bullets.
Or like sophisticated wallets of spice and kitchen characters in a bald head
cooking chemical kisses and 18 February nights under Moloch’s skin,
where constitutions are written in charcoal diaries with Egyptian ciphers and razors.
“I had rain sowed into the pockets of my sneakers and composed 1310 eulogies
at the basement of king David’s tower,” said the Kraftwerkian caricature,
as he dangles cigarettes in remembrance of Klaus Nomi and philosophizes on the proliferation
of poetic vandalism at urinals where modernism failed under the phosphorescence of coloration at the avenue of no trees where Picasso's "Guernica" **** Lies All.
Jul 17, 2012
Jul 17, 2012 at 6:01 PM UTC
The bloom of the cut rose
leaks into the water glass.
She fixes breakfast.
I sit thereabouts waiting.
I trouble my coffee with a spoon.
Her slippers scuff softly on the floor.
Her dreaming slowly leaves her eyes.
I rub my homely morning face.
The finger of a tree taps the glass.
It will not be admitted
with the pale, newborn light.
The world already goes its way.
It minds if we are slow to follow.
The street grumbles at my well-used robe.
Matins bells predict a running out.
We keep our peace
longer than we should.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 8:50 AM UTC
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountain yields.
There we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;
A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
7.2k
Hazy half-light mornings interspersed with giddy sleep
Silent showers and quick grooming
Breakfast maybe, chores and work and walking in my slippers.
Afternoons tense with labor and stress
Broken up by slow-falling meditative mind rain
And usually Fall Out Boy in my ears.
Quickdark evenings.
No light.
Demons aren't occupied with being scared of being burned.
Staying up until god only knows and then some
Laying in the dark and feeling panic
Ice bones, fire veins, a noose around my throat
And not even in a **** way.
Shaking, teeth chatter, eyes roll, spin, turn, off the bed.
Sit on the floor. Lay down. Room's spinning.
Stumble to the dresser.
Grab the cure.
Illegal cure, no one knows anymore.
Dulled by use, old when taken, press harder.
Crimson bubbles, drips, rolls and stains.
Demons lap it up, whisper thanks, leave.
Sun comes up, lay in the half light.
Fall asleep giddy with pain.
Jun 21, 2014
Jun 21, 2014 at 5:29 AM UTC
Nearly home.
The bed
And the slippers grow ever closer.
A memory of things that give comfort seem palatial,
Euphoric in the mind's eye,
Though I do seem to ponder of its romanticized reality
Memories always seem so warm.
In reality,
The things that hold others close are affirming.
Love,
Shared events
Symbiotic empathy,
But given the current state...
The boring,
The mundane,
The trivial and the tedious that makes the most of a lifetime
Are omitted from the mind.
But why not have a memory full of nothing but the nothingness of life?
The train rides?
Waiting for the toaster to splay its insides
So I can feast on its wonderful toasty goodness?
Talking to the tenant who does not understand
That a bouncing leg
And constant time updates are signposts to **** off?
Empty the files of my brain
And fill it with the moments of nothing.
These moments and these alone
Are your true self.
if you are a good person
Is not determined by
How many charities earn your pay
Or how many items stored,
What you are is chosen by the lonely,
The solitary,
The Tigress.
Only when you accept that person,
You are happy
And free.
But don't hold your breath.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
You breathed your last breath from the air
in this room;
that threadbare Persian carpet
holds flakes from your skin;
hairs from your head
corkscrew the dented cushions
scattered and idly waiting on the sofa;
bed linen scented with your sweat
the goose down doona that stole
your last warmth;
sleep spit and tears
human moisture that permeates
the acrylic layers of your pillow;
an eyebrow hair wedged in the tweezers;
a clipped nail that flew off
somewhere out of sight;
that new toothbrush used only once;
your flannel and towel still drying out;
the wet press footprint on the bathroom mat;
the talcum powdered slippers
abandoned under the brass bed.
Each moment of everyday
we shed ourselves
shed dead cells and renew -
a cycle of shedding
until the last
shedding of ourselves.
© M.L. Emmett
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
The stairs slipped away under my feet.
My slippers are soggy.
Hair is hanging like fly paper, instead of flies it's snaring run away raindrops.
Soon to be snowdrops, as is predicted.
Spring snowflakes, spring snowdrops.
Country stops, unprepared.
Nobody cared.
Perhaps they should.
Could be good.
Buckets of grit, let them be spread.
No more pretty pure white ****
Mushy, ***** slippery slush.
*C **************************************************************/
*H **************************************************************/
A**********************************************************/
O******************************************************/
S***************************************************/
(C) LIVVI
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 8:11 AM UTC
Turquoise blues guitars
Laughing baby elephants (that paint)
Melodies singing lullabies to sleepy baby elephants
(tired from painting all day)
Blank canvases full of blackberries on the inside
The antidote to love
All the dotes that didn't get doted
And all the ones that did
Playing badminton in the backyard of Cupid's summer home in Manarola
The ruby that died to make Dorothy's slippers
And the shortest hair from the Lion's tail
Wine filled grapes
Water balloons filled from hot springs and melted mountain snow
Two spokes from Steve McQueen's "Great Escape" motorcycle
Three kisses from Ilsa Lund
And a smile from Sabrina Fairchild
Tom Robbins' typewriter (it's magic)
A flying dragon
A dragonfly (grounded for not doing her homework)
Jenny's phone number
The pillow that hit the floor at Cecilia's that afternoon
The third stair from the top of the Stairway to Heaven (best view)
One of the lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
And a grain of salt from the sea the other is swimming in
An olympic size pool full of melted crayons
A vile of sweat from the ever fleeing muse
A refrigerator the size of Rhode Island
Full of magnificent lines of magnetic poetry
Poetry (all of it)
The monster under the monster's bed
Every foul ball ever caught by any kid
Hammocks (any and every)
The cardboard boat that never stopped sailing down the gutter of the world
The secret to everything
(kept securely under the bed of the monster, under the monster's bed)
Santa's real address (you won't believe this)
The blue ink from the blueprints of Atlantis
Golf carts with no maximum speed
The energy dust left from dancing, hugging and smiling
Freshly climbed trees
A warehouse the size of Antarctica completely filled
Wall to wall with raw, unfiltered laughter
Beer
Everything that was left on the field
Passionate embraces and embracing a passion
Apology free, but full of forgiveness
The wild of the wilderness
The tame of the un-tame
Language
Intuition
Conception
First kisses, waves and winks
Goodbye hugs and thrown in kitchen sinks
Art
Music
Pain
Puddles that have been danced in under pouring rain
Empty film cans
Films on screens
All of these ingredients
Are what makes up
Dreams
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
To be a good writer or a poet
You have to be good at wearing shoes other than your size
Size 1, 2, 3, up to size 10
Even if it falls off your feet or too tight, you just have to try
Not only shoes, also all other kinds of footwear
From socks, sandals, flip flops, and slippers
High-heeled, boots, flippers and sneakers
Even barefooted, if there's nothing else to wear
Then, walk with it, run with it
Feel the calluses and feelings it brings
Up until its soles are wearing thin
Then, write the experience
Jun 1, 2015
Jun 1, 2015 at 9:35 PM UTC
by Danny Smith
The old man rises from his chair
gently cursing the ache that crept into his bones
when he wasn't looking
His slippered feet scuff the carpet
making a journey they know without him
to the window
He watches down on the cars
as they flash through the rain on an urgent journey
somewhere
Leaning forward to rest his forehead
on the cool damp pane that shields him from it all
his prison wall
The cars seem to softly merge
as fragments like a broken mirror
tease and torment
A lifetime of dreams and tomorrows
that somehow became painful yesterdays
much too fast
Squeezing his eyes tightly closed
he remembers her face and the soft scar on her cheek
a perfect imperfection
The laughter and cries of children
running to him with chocolate smeared mouths
grown now, gone now
All of them to different worlds
ones where he was afraid to travel to
out there
Plenty of time to make it through
but the nights seem to skip the sunshine days
sentenced
he shuffles back to the chair
lowering himself with limbs that can't be his
removes his slippers
Reaches for the polished shoes
years old but hardly worn and still uncreased
laces them
Moves slowly through the house
turning of lights, collecting a wallet
a pack of cigarettes, a photograph
pocketing them
The old man stands at the open door
just a fragment of someone elses memory, as he walks
into the rain
©Danny Smith
Apr 5, 2018
Apr 5, 2018 at 2:01 PM UTC
I'm a Disney princess
A pretty, pretty actress
Sought by handsome princes
and by ugly wicked witches
My hair is blonde
and shiny and smooth
or soft and long
and fragrant and strong
I'm just like my hair
Shining bright like a flare
In a world of unfair
I'd get even and square
(Grr, grr!)
'Cause I'm a Disney princess
My skin is white and lovely
So are my eyes and my teeth
And everything about me
Because I am perfect
I'm created to win
I'm the hero of your dreams
Armed with my tears and high-pitched screams
Sometimes I'd only sleep
Then there comes his charming kiss
It's hot, it's sweet, it's salty
Thanks for waking me up!
Sometimes I'd sneak on a ball
Dancing 'til I hear my midnight call
And leave one of my silver slippers
For my curious prince to ponder
Then he'd seek and find me
And we'll live happily ever after!
Wait, why am I here
In this sad forgotten tower?
With my evergrowing golden hair
Can't even find a single stair
I wanna go down
I wanna go down so badly
I wanna go down so deeply
Somebody please help me
Please help me go down
And my wish is granted:
A prince had just appeared
He pulled down my slender hair
Saved me from my lonely despair
But “ouch! That hurts!”
No it didn't! I'm just trying to flirt!
(Wink, wink!)
'Cause I'm a Disney princess
I can have all that I want
I can make all those mistakes
And fix them with a magical wand!
My life is a dazzling fairy tale
Packed with curses and magic spells
Who really cares about moral lessons
If everyone's happy like a bunch of morons?
Because I'm a Disney princess!
Everybody loves me
Whatever I do
You still wanna be me!
Curtain closes,
bells go chimes
My story ain't over,
it's just begun
Countdown starts,
five times the fun
Four times the thrill,
the Evil Queen awakes
Thrice made the chill,
the dragon is unleashed
Twice turn the pages,
here come the mages
Once upon a time,
I'm a Disney princess!
Aug 16, 2017
Aug 16, 2017 at 4:19 AM UTC
#112615 #9:55PM
Nakaadya ang pares na sisidlan
Tangan ang kalasag na paparaan
Bibigkis ang kapagalan
Isasaplot at pasasalamatan.
Ni walang maitulak-maikabig
Pagkat sumamo'y patungong Langit
Siya'y isasantabi,
Sa papag isasalig ang sarili.
Nov 26, 2015
Nov 26, 2015 at 8:56 AM UTC
they danced in a dream
of bending shadows
face down
begging ***
all hungry back door paradise
ankles strapped on a foot worn floor
paint faced in whorey nights
with pin needle eyes
beded
blood crimson neon's
cut curtains
like kissing claws
so their bodies wouldn't forget
dark pleasures lightening
and biting tantra tantrums
they swallowed mad ***** blossoms of hell candy
breathing the others inhalations
foot sniffing ballet arch
in fastened Japanese melting red slippers
gazing upwards rectums prayer
solar eyed insurrection
finger by finger
clutching wrists like the grave
for bloods salty cove
an injured landscape
a dire pink desert
like bogs hold bones
a rave for a slave
covered in yellow ocher rubber sheets
soft on the feet
x rated amputee costume
made of blood and spit
look mommy no arms
a bellied tattoo
of hennaed homunculi
burning Candomblé Jejé, skull
black eyed beauty hissing
while accordion throated
rip tie tighten
another notch please
a dizzy *******
down silver fluted gullet
in a steamed up bath house
party of blotted sockets
*** kitten
kissed dead girls thighs
tremulous and stretched
a shimmering serum
like wide tubular channels
as pontoon edges slit
through midnight howls for velvet skinned girl
who thrills
her head a veiled Jehovah
saliva wagging tongue ****
a stuttering ****** dance
a hula hot momma in rubble
slapping hot lipped kisses
over starved darkness
along telegraphs avenue
melting eyes like butter
a globed pudding spill
******* drool drops of gold
and black river gladiators
slaughter lies
with every long stroke
between cascading squeals
paraphilias mausoleum
like tumbling eels
a scapegoat pulp fiction
chiseled in cement
******* rips
drip drip drip
babbling **** bubbles
**** spasms ooze like a hot glue gun
fire spats soil cherry clover
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 3:39 PM UTC
The man behind the curtain
Speaking loud and certain
His image twisted and blurred
Larger than life
His armies and might
Imperialism is what he prefers
The little people do his bidden
On the senate floor of Oz
With pockets full
Of yellow brick gold
Their children live like gods
While those outside the castle
Have fallen fast to sleep
Trekking through the ***** field
Light upon their feet
The witches rise
On the centrist floor
The Wizard of Trump
Will have four more
Where are the ruby slippers
For it's time to go home
There's no place like...
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 7:39 AM UTC
I have a blue blanket, it looks corduroy but it's synthetic polynesian cotton.
Considered by some to be polyester. After the ninth year of ownership I started
Telling house guests it had always been mine; but secretly knowing it came from my
Ex Kristina who left it with some of her other things in 2005 in my grand deluxe Evanston
Apartment. In like some really awesome way, I could fold the corners together to see little blocks
Of the Universe form cubes in the fourth dimension and gain a better understanding of my own
Little black shmata. Top drawer, white dresser, in the back with the leftover girlfriend underwear between
My first ever stuffed animal dog/rabbit.
Amazing how these thinned and frayed azure threads had held so many midnight conversations Together- maybe fifteen other girls had nuzzled with Kristina's blanket. Last year the guilt set in. You Watch a girlfriend, say, ratchet through your room naked for something soft to put over her to listen to
Some half-stanza from the new Yeats critical and that, do-I-tell-her feeling comes over you. Blue Polyester really had a way with women. My last serious crush, the one of six months, the one from the place that was close to where I worked six days a week, would you believe, she had not interest in that heap of thread, under my pillows spying on us sleep for twenty-four long weeks.
"Drop in the bucket" the sixty-year-olds say. I say, bring me my ******* fourth dimension blocks and cubes ************ I want to visit the existential, I want to experience the hoo-ra and Ga-Ga those kids throw around on Milwaukee waiting for $150 NBA slippers.
Wednesday is my day for telling the truth.
2:00p.m. sitting in the front of her alizarin El Dorado.
"I have something I have to tell you," I said, my mouth practically filled with marbles as I barely could Utter the words: it's not going to work out.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 5:51 AM UTC
"Son can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet
And I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"
Billy Joel lyrics from
"Piano Man"*
~~~~~~~~~~~~
when I was very young
I wore Levi jeans and white
Hanes cotton T shirts
my mother bot me,
my feet, Ked clad, red
from the kid's "department" store
on Central Avenue,
the Main Street of my small town
when I was a young lad,
I wore workingman's cargo jeans and
white Hanes cotton T shirts
under red plaid
wooly shirts, itchy affairs,
that I bot for myself
in a real Army Navy store,
desert colored suede boots,
laced up high,
upon my feet
when I was of middling years,
my jeans were khaki pants,
Gap supplied,
and my Gap T shirts,
faded like me,
a non-descript color,
made in a gap of pale pastel colors
from Bangladesh or Vietnam,
pale pastel, like me
so as I slide~decline into
my nursing home years,
I wear unbranded jeans and
white cotton no name T shirts
with matching white disposable slippers,
that the Purchasing Department
bot for me, cause they know,
I like,
a younger man's clothes and
the memories that play all day
lost in day dreaming of a life
well dressed
2:01am
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC