"unbuttoning" poems
*Nice,
Slick,
Steady,
Unbuttoning...
She makes
Naughty
Things
So
Forgivable.*
© 2014 J.S.P.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 7:45 AM UTC
With my face over her hair fallen neck
sending through my lips
what I’ve dreamed of compiled tastes
One arm wrapped her waist
The spinal curve of her back
Give-way my others embrace
In my palm falling slowly
with surrendered hold
Her reclining body takes plunge
A body wondrously dreamt by the Gods
but never to beholden
For that vessel has since long belonged
And in a quiet covet,
the Gods continue to sin
Over and across the bed
Released from my grip
Upwards into her hairline
a sweat spreading mist
Grabbing a fistful of mane
I’d lay down on the runway to attain
this flowing coat between my fingers
For the length of time
her hair has entwined me in cuffs
Pulling harder
I gladly yield in acceptance
this braid given stain
a permanent scar
Slow let go of her feathers tangled
In her neck I’m keeping
a burrow in repose
Seeing buttons undone in sync
to expose
The destination of my lips next imprint
like advanced shadowing hints
In a mechanical motion
Hair pulling emotion
Triggers upward
her chest and chin
Two spotlights on the ceiling what her ******* up send
Shaping her back an arc
like a half moons descent
When she finishes her unbuttoning
Next for my belt she reaches
then the unzip I’ll never forget
She takes me in invest
I take her in continuous shooting
All the unfastened
unclothed
Now Firm
Quake
Earned
And Shake
The peak is reached from this encounter
defined by a collection of far to many lustfully seductive
mental hive of trapped aches
Then I kiss her lips in return she kisses me back, felt...
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 7:08 PM UTC
I died yesterday, by my own hand,
And now here I am;
Standing like a ******* idiot in my kitchen,
And craving cornflakes.
The reasons why I did it seem hazy now;
All the buttoning and unbuttoning seemed to much,
Or else a love had left me,
And now I can't even grasp a bowl.
Stupid! That's what it is! Pure stupidity!
And I just want some ****** Crunchy Nut!
The bathrooms off-limits now;
It just makes me angry to see myself lying there,
No longer able to help anyone, least of all myself,
And that body didn't seem to care
About my cereal lust.
So here I am; staring at the cupboard,
But unable to open it,
and I don't even know if there's
any cereal left in the ****** thing anyway.
All those stupid myths about ghosts walking
Through walls was wrong apparently;
I'm just slowly fading away.
So here I am; craving cereal like a spoon.
The stupid spoon that I'm unable to grasp;
That seems to chortle, facelessly, at my attempts.
And being forever angry at that
Stupid idiot in the bathroom
For whom I feel nothing but contempt.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 10:44 PM UTC
I asked for very little from life,
and even this little was denied me.
A nearby field,
a ray of sunlight,
a little bit of calm along with a bit of bread,
not to feel oppressed by the knowledge that I exist, not to demand anything from others,
and not to have others demand anything from me - this was denied me,
like the spare change we might deny a beggar not because we're mean-hearted but because we don't feel like unbuttoning our coat
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC
The clouds are low enough
Now they carry light from the street lamps
Glowing with hazy filaments
Touched by man
But in their unbuttoning fleece
I see the stars
And they will always be beautiful.
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 11:00 AM UTC
lounging in a ripped and stretched
wifebeater, a breast half peeking
and my legs, unshaved
propped against the wall
i watch as he creeps closer,
holding me with his gaze,
beads of sweat forming on his brow.
i smile at him to show him i'm not nervous,
turning to arch my back and allow
my hair to cover my eyes
i know he is unbuttoning his pants
staring at my underwear, lace-rimmed
and clinging to the parts he will touch soon
i let him **** me because
i had nothing better to do
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 4:28 PM UTC
i open the front door & a small
man with his shirt buttoned all
the way up asks me if i'd like to
buy a pocket bible, so i can
worship wherever i go. i ask if i
can fit it in a flask & if it's okay
to take with whiskey. his eyelids
shut like a casket as he touches
his forehead, chest, right shoulder
then left shoulder. tells me i'm
going to hell. i crawl back
onto my bar stool and drink from
the ceramic mug you glued back
together the night you saw my face
and pictured a room full of soft
things shattering. i can hear the
sound of a train & it's such a shame
that the nearest railroad is under
construction. it's such a shame that
the floor of my mind is set up like
a child's playroom with plastic
train tracks set in the center & a
younger version of myself is sitting
in front of them playing with a
replica of the train my whole body
was begging to be kissed by.
ugh, kissing. my god. i'm so high.
kiss me in my death spot, the
spot that'll be where my life ends.
replace my train tracks with
a dollhouse. tell the soft things
that i love them. open my front door,
tell the small man to unbutton his
shirt, that not everyone buys
pants with pockets in them.
wake me up when i'm sober &
tell me to write an ending to this.
i cannot think of an ending. please
don't let me become it
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
You fell in love with my negative space, the parts of me that I couldn't stand to see, but when your hand reached between my thighs, I said okay.
You told me you liked my smile, but only when I was unbuttoning my shirt, but when you asked if I wanted this, I said okay.
You promised me we would be okay, that all my fears would go away, when you told my to lie down and close my eyes, I said okay.
If this is what love is, I'm not okay.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 10:38 AM UTC
Violent rage befitting a man of noble status.
Slaves and servants beaten without
discrimination. Blood soaked halls echo
with moans of suffering. Cracks of the whip
inciting shrieks of pain. The count is pleased
but not yet satisfied. Naked bodies, male and
female, covered in blood. No resistance is
offered by these peasants. They don't dare to
defy the urges of a nobleman. "The night is still
young," he says. "There's still time to **** and
defile all of you. And so I shall." He laughs as
his eye catches a young girl. "You my sweet
shall go first," he says unbuttoning his trousers.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 12:42 AM UTC
Loving me is hell and hell is dense
And hell is heavy
And hell is hot
Dense with the influx of passing souls
That nudge elbows of their brother sinners
In tight elevators that hum not
Piano music but drums so loud
They convert heart beats to 808 rhythms
They shake the victims of vices so
Hard the change falls from their pockets
And bounces back up into their eyes
Hell is heavy
It is heavy with the weight of lies
And of the truths of passions sought and met
With only finger tips and white lips
The vicious bosses of mobs
And the cemented feet of snitches caught
Hell is dense
It is packed tighter than fingers in fists
Clenched fixed on righting wrongs
The air there is hot with breathes
Held in and finally released with
The unbuttoning of sliming corporate tuxes
Fastened inside out so the brass buttons brand and burn
The business boys’ bantam bodies
While they look up at the men the tired to measure up to
But where always a stich or two short
Hell is hot
Hot and steaming with the blood of the corrupt
That was spilt and then encountered a tilt
Down a funnel mixed with rotten oil
Left stagnant by sinners that sought not
To move a finger to clean up that gunk
The steam from sinners water not sweat
Boil sweet and steamy up into the
Mouths of men with jaws wired open
And rested on their bellies that are propped up
By guns taking all that is sweet for themselves
This is hell
This, like me,
Feels tastes sounds and smells
Of dense hot and heavy
Sins deadly appealing
And dammingly just.
Aug 20, 2012
Aug 20, 2012 at 6:43 PM UTC
I have a theory.
My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. Being fragile to the core that it shakes you to your bones. Being weak and standing up on your own just scares the hell out of you. Despite all these, you try to keep the one thing that keeps your weaknesses intact and in one place. It is hidden inside their throats and at the palm of their hands, at their neck and behind their ears. It is sitting in their lungs, begging for escape but longing for the hold. Flaunt and retire. Flaunt and retire.
My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. You started unbuttoning my ribs around you. Watched me try to untangle myself from your subtle embrace. Exposed my weakness, my fragile strings wrapped on your pinky finger, ready to release, ready to detonate. I unzipped your thighs wrapped around my waist. You left me alone with your scent. Watch me try to scrub away the heat you leave on my skin. See the buttons slowly falling on the bed we shared.
My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. How I want to destroy anything that dared touch me and took a piece of my lonely. It is about open palms giving vague dislike. It is a table for two but only an empty seat stares at your eyes. It is feeling the awkward breaking that is within your fingertips but never seemed to be enough for preparing you for the fall. You finally wake up choosing to breathe but still flinching at the sound of something coming near. Your subtleties dance on her tongue's words. Soothing as they are, they're poison.
My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. How being brave is nowhere near your grasping distance. You try, every single day you try. You try to always go for the long term but the universe decides what you get, right? And you're always left with dust, shadows, and empty bottles of what ifs. You're always left with the questions, the sitting alone, the cold coffee in the morning. You're left with the sad playlists on your Spotify. You're left on your own. If you were in The Fault in our Stars book, that will be my always.
My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. Fears. Trembling hands holding out cups of secrets. Awkwardness in every written letter on paper hidden under the pillow. Loneliness sitting next to old books bought on a favorite bookstore. Depression long gone but resurfaces every now and then. It's one of things that stayed. Self-hate. It is one thing you run towards to when things get rough and when doubts are heavier than anything you laid your hands on and tried to carry.
My theory is about frailty. Moments of frailty. Of how I recently started loving myself and slowly drowning my hate in formaline. Of how I keep on repeating I never need the reassurance. Of how poems are all I need to feel like I can feel air inside my lungs again.
It is one thing to have a theory, and another to face it in practice.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 2:07 PM UTC
"Honey, you're a boy.
You can't play with your sisters."
My mom said
As she makes me play alone
Because making sure a boy doesn't play with a Barbie is better than making sure he actually plays at all.
"Come on. Take it like a man."
My 6th grade classmate said
As he shoves me on my desk
Because I ****** at our basketball match that I didn't even want to take part of.
When my friend asked the teacher to stop my bully
She looked up from her book and said
"Boys will be boys. They'll be laughing it out later on"
But I didn't laugh. I haven't for a while
"You're a young man now. And young men don't cry"
My dad said
As he puts an ice over my bruised up eye
Maybe I should tell him that I'm not crying because it hurts
I'm crying because I have to go to school with the ones who did it
But I didn't. He'll just tell me to be tough again.
"Come on, you're a guy. Shouldn't you be out on a Friday night?"
My dad asked
As he grabbed the book that I'm reading and force me to go out with my "friends" that he didn't know I don't have.
"Seriously? Oh my god you are such a guy."
My sister said as I turned down her offer to shop at the mall
I really just didn't want to do anything
But hey, at least now I'm a boy.
"It's like being in a relationship with a robot. And quite frankly. I'm done"
My girlfriend,
I mean ex girlfriend,
say as she slams the door on her way out of my room
What if I told her I was just so used to it
Not letting my emotion out
Be tough
But she wouldn't understand
I'm not really sure if I even do understand.
"Come on. You're a guy right? You like this."
The random girl I met at this party said
As she pushed me down on the bed and starts unbuttoning my shirt
I don't want to
I wanna say
But I didn't
Because she was right
I'm a guy
I like this
I should like this
But I don't
"Why don't you try to get along with your sisters? They're your sisters for crying out loud!"
My mom said as she washes the dishes
Maybe because I never had the chance to be close to them
To actually get to know them
I want to say
No
I wanted to yell
But I never did
Because guys don't rant to their moms.
Guys should love *** and they can never get enough.
Guys shouldn't talk about their feelings.
Boys will be boys
right?
Jan 22, 2017
Jan 22, 2017 at 11:32 AM UTC
Beauty and the beast
Their situation a bit thorny
Please, wait! don't go!
I promise this wont be corny!
This fairy tale is quite disturbing
The plot, quickly, you are learning
About a girl oh-so deserving
And a Beast quite unnerving
Bell, which translates to "beauty"
Had quite the unlucky dad
For he promised her a rose
But came back with empty hand
Now, during his return
He stumbles upon a castle
Where hospitality awaited him
So, who was he to hassle?
While unbuckling his belt
And unbuttoning his clothes
He noticed something beautiful
Something called a rose
The most beautiful one he wanted to pluck
But, instead, he should have ducked
Because the Beast, he had much better luck
And Bells father was forced to give her up
Bell willingly lived with the beast
Where every night there was a feast
There was no passion, to say the least
But their friendship would never cease
Bell eventually became homesick
But the beast had his ways
He said she could see her family
But had to return in 7 days
Before sending Bell on her way
The beast gave her 2 things
One an enchanted mirror
The other an enchanted ring
Use this mirror to see me
Whenever you want to be near
But turn this ring three times
And instantly you'll be here
Jealous of her well being
Bells sisters lead her astray
Wanting the Beast to grow angry
They beg of her to stay
After feeling so much guilt
Bell looks into the mirror
Not only to find the Beast half dead
She uses the ring to see it clearer
The Beast is lying on the ground
His breath is weak, he makes no sound
Belle can't believe what she had found
She Screamed "I love you Beast, I love you now!"
The tears struck the beast
And he transformed into a prince!
He tells her about the fairy
Who turned him into this
I've found my true love
The curse was finally broken from me
My dearest Bell, Darling
Your love has awoken me you see
I used to be angry
So my fate was then sealed
But with your love and your faith
Our true beauty was revealed
You see this story has a moral
In order to live Happily ever after
You must look beyond the growl
And begin to cherish the laughter
Aug 29, 2010
Aug 29, 2010 at 6:30 PM UTC
He takes his shirt off without
unbuttoning
and in the dead of night
when he goes for a ****
I see his silhouette
and think -
what a marvellous man.
We row a lot these days
and he is often cross
with the way I never clean the bath,
with the way I move,
and sometimes
with what I eat in bed -
I know I'll never be
the heartless soldier he knew before
or the gym bunny with two iron eyes,
He'll never be quite as blond
as I want,
nor quite as odd.
But still I look at his silhouette
dark and strange
when he goes for a ****
and I think,
dear me,
what a marvellous man.
May 23, 2015
May 23, 2015 at 3:42 PM UTC
Sometimes I cry
when I think of him
unbuttoning those
orange shorts
that make your
*** look so good.
Sometimes I sext
you and your girlfriends,
but let's blame that
one on the drink.
Sometimes I smoke
to celebrate one of
your many deaths
in my ****** collection
of unpublished
short stories.
Sometimes I hope
you'll apologize
to me for ruining
my name.
Sometimes I want
you to hold me against
the wall and push--
until your bony body
passes through me,
and I turn you to waste.
Sometimes I call
to ask what's off limits,
so I know where to
set my goals.
Sometimes I buy
that cheap red wine
you loved so much,
and drink it all
in a night -- just
to watch it go empty.
Sometimes I curl up to
that lumpy, stained,
blue pillow, and
pretend it's you.
Sometimes I dream
of raising a family
in a small house
near Pacific Beach.
Sometimes I nearly
smother myself
with that blue pillow.
May 12, 2012
May 12, 2012 at 3:44 AM UTC
Coral evening sky casting a warm glow, in this lightening claimed dusky sky
Your shy smile bursting into a fit of giggles as I tickle you, my fingertips pressed to your belly, lingering
Starry eyes mirroring this evident desire,
A melancholy lullaby crackling into a fire laced ballad
My lips meet yours, and here we are lost in this fragile moment, like a flitting darting bird
Savoring it, tongues dancing across the shorelines of my molars, like this is the first and the last time
You pull the curtain, unbuttoning, yanking the shirt off my body; solace is your only quest
Your lips licking my earlobe, whispering verses of ******* addicted musicians, but you prefer ecstasy
Your fingers tracing the raven tattooed on the nape of neck, trailing down needy kisses along my spine
Your trying to blur it all out, I’m trying to save you darling, from yourself,
I need this too more than you know, but I love you more
Disasters have a tendency to reside in your ribs for a longtime, striking often-
Causing violent tremors
Leading to noxious EARTHQUAKES.
Your cat stopped breathing 6 months ago, she had punctured her lungs
I remember you screaming, trashing all the memories so that it stops hurting,you repressed it all.
You loved that furry little brat more than you hate fate.
Your grandfather expired last month, his led zeppelin, bon jovi records drown in loneliness now
Wrinkly smiles told stories of cosmos, aliens, he was a crazy man. The best nonetheless.
Chemotherapy drained out all the money and smiles, leaving your brittle heart suffering from paroxysm.
When he died, you kept shouting for hours straight, they had to sedate you. You blanked out. I know you are sinking in the abyss of hopelessness and you’re trying to escape, escape this AMNESIA,
that is running after you.
But love, let me in, I know you’re afraid, but I vow, I’ll prove to be sempiternal.
And I swear I’ll be there cupping these rare innocent moments and preserving, holding you close, kissing you even when the rainfall doesn’t seem to stop.
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
It is that time before bed
When the day says stop
But still there are things to do
As talk and chat winds down
We give our attention
To the News and Weather
As couples do before bed
Before the sorting of cats
Locking the doors
Before going upstairs
To brush teeth and
Peek at the children
(Oh the way the heart’s
love leaps as
the landing-light falls
on those dear faces -
sleep gathering in
what the day has grown)
_______________________
Now the promise
Of bed’s lamplight
The click of the switch
And the slow radiance
Of the low-energy bulb
Spreading across pillows
Into the shadows where
As I lie in bed and melt
you remove your clothes
Such careful unbuttoning
before the limbs’ balletic
Moves in sequence
Pull-up draw-down
Shed-off un-hook
Drop fold pile place
A jigsaw of curved forms
coming together
in a dance of shadows
And now the final gesture
When if naked or not you
Stoop to pull the cover back
In exquisite shudder
Your *******
Fall and sway
As the smooth fruit
Of your beauty’s
Tree is revealed
Oct 13, 2012
Oct 13, 2012 at 3:04 AM UTC
“I can’t make bricks without clay,” you said
but you had me walking into walls
with eyes wide open,
unbuttoning my pants in public to some
maenad beat in the foreground of your chest.
(You know, I've felt your calloused hands
Decades of times, molding my bone-dried shape.)
more than once I saw my looking-glass self
reflected in your hundred yard stare onyx eyes
ones made from medieval, fire-forged steel
bent back on itself thousands of times.
To me, you’re living proof that it’s not just the depths
of some ocean, where darkness can create.
we love each other like we don’t exist,
so I’m not sure if I do.
Oct 18, 2013
Oct 18, 2013 at 2:34 PM UTC
After your lecture on
polyphase something-or-the-others
we meet at my house which is also
your house. We were going to make dinner
but
you're wearing those square black glasses and
a tight lacy blouse and
that **** pencil skirt that hugs your ***
and those black stilettos and
I can't help myself. I lean
across the stove and twirl
it off, condemning the pasta to half-cookedness
and then I
grab you around the waist
pull you flush against me
and kiss you breathless
one hand on the small of your back
the other
on your *** kneading and squeezing
eliciting gasps from your parted lips that
end up between my teeth.
your trembling hands frantically
unbuttoning my shirt as I unzip your
skirt and throw it to the corner your
blazer and castaway your
blouse and then you're in your
bra and dampened ******* fingernails
scratching and raking and clawing at
the small of my back with your
legs spread in an inverted triangle and your
tongue in my mouth. I unsnap your
bra and moments later your
******* are under lipsteethtongue and then
lipsteethtongue
kisssuckbite
lower
and
lower
until
lipsteethtongue
kisssuckbite at
your ******** and your
***** until
gasping squealing moaning
you ****** your
juice in my
mouth and on my
lipstongueteeth.
The pasta is wasted.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
Can you see it like I can,
a boasting child,
a boating child,
an accident
she drowned.
Down,
the bubbles escape,
race like red toy cars
as blood blossoms out ears,
and pressure builds,
and fingers reach upwards
pop
where small fingers are glassed with soapy water
and white and blue frosting.
scribbled over red lettering, "Happy Birthday Meredith."
And cards were presented with pasts and futures,
torn open like a shark attack
and ripping skin,
flapping back like dog ears, as he sticks his head out the window
and howls at the neighbors
for their loud music ways.
Silent crashing waves,
that boom death metal
and ride tidal curls
that bounce off her head.
As she writhes,
a red ribbon in her hair.
Hair of spun gold
like the sun
smothered by the moon.
Darkness eclipses.
And the last of the air is pushed
through her lungs
for light has drifted away,
torn like a suckling pig from its ****
and she is lost.
As her body floats away, pulled down.
Unclasped, she roams free.
groans, "Meeeee. Find mee...eeeee."
And eels slither from her jaw,
agape and brackish blue,
like pirate ship wine
sunken *** and treasure troves,
and streamline red.
Adding to a salty complexity
of tarnished speckled metal
like speckled eggs.
And brown eyes
bore out by hermit *****
that broke their shells after a gluttonous feast.
Unbuttoning her dress
a flower paisley sort of thing,
a useless scrap of sodden material,
for nothing matters,
as she thinks nothing can hold on to her
now and before.
She is aware,
but not really there, because you would miss her
like you did when she stood in the hall,
your eyes passed over,
and so stayed her silent screams.
So she left our world,
or rather hovered and watched
as much as she could without eyes.
She watched you,
and felt nothing over your cries
because she feels nothing
Now.
Apr 17, 2013
Apr 17, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
My muse, my muse,
She’s here right now
She just took a shower and her hair is still wet.
She's wearing a bathrobe, she walks up to the bed and sits
When she crosses one leg over the other I catch a flash of her thighs
Inviting thighs, long legs
She has pretty feet
And pretty ankles,
I always look at feet.
She has delicate wrists
She has long thumbs, here she is
Now leafing through a magazine
With those long thumbs,
Long fingernails.
Her shoes are on the floor, shoes that she wore last night
They've fallen over on the carpet,
My eyes find my way back to her
She seems to have found something interesting in the magazine
Here she is, concentrated on it, her back is straight
In this light, this natural light,
Without make up,
She looks impossibly lovely,
Renoir would paint her.
I get out of bed and walk into the shower.
There’s something strangely intimate
About taking a shower in a girl’s bathroom,
Shampoo bottles and hair conditioners all around me
Water cascading down my bare chest
Recollecting and replaying scenes from the night before:
Unbuttoning her jeans, pulling them off
Seeing her Hello Kitty underwear
And laughing, and thinking it was cute
And saying, umm… so how old are you again?
Humour always works, yes, humour always works.
I love ********** this girl.
It seems as though I'm always ********** her.
At night in the living room, on the sofa
Unfastening her stockings and slowly rolling them off,
Next her skirt, then her underwear…
Sweet parting flesh
I begin thinking of how it’ll be, how it’ll go down
She's always in something classy,
But man, it seems as though I'm always ********** her.
Sometimes I strip everything off her body,
But I ask her to leave her earrings and heels on; they confirm her nakedness
Hoop earrings
Red lipstick
Red heels
I lie in the middle of the bed, lights are dim, she climbs onto the bed
Curls up between my legs, begins by kissing on my stomach...
Great lovers lie in hell, the poet says.
Great lovers lie in hell.
I'm falling asleep afterwards, but not her
*** invigorates me,* she says, tying her hair in a ponytail
This girl, she has the effect of lighting a matchstick in the dark.
She lays beside me and begins to read Jeanette Winterson
And just before I succumb to a deep slumber I remember something and tell her,
Baby, baby, baby, your Morse code interferes with my heartbeat.
Nov 3, 2013
Nov 3, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
She judges the men,
unbuttoning, buttoning –
and she keeps looking.
Oct 4, 2019
Oct 4, 2019 at 3:32 AM UTC
we were born with death written on our arms.
you
wear it like a tattoo;
i wear it like a barcode that
god
stuck on the ******
cashier yells
“NEXT PLEASE”
& you try to get laser treatment.
smoking in graveyards the clouds sang.
we
fell in slow pieces.
nobody will recognise the tune.
god
has left us a sign,
sign reads:
GONE FISHIN’
i hold you crying in his hallway.
you started wearing death on your sleeve.
i
need a new skin;
you need to get a better shirt.
god
is not a dressmaker
but instead
a lover -
unbuttoning the words on my headstone.
Feb 23, 2015
Feb 23, 2015 at 7:11 PM UTC