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Ember Evanescent Feb 2015
I never really thought I’d see you again, to be honest.

I feel a little underdressed for the occasion.

There you are, wearing the same Hypocrisy you have worn for years and have seriously outgrown, but you wear it still.

Then here I am, in nothing but a worn out grudge, but hey, I tried to dress it up a little with some bitterness.

I think you and I were a little too similar, actually. Maybe that’s why we fell apart, because we were just too alike. That’s one of my scarier thoughts, but definitely not the scariest.

It isn’t an impossible theory, I guess. Though I think maybe it was more like we were two different sides of the same coin, but even if that’s true, we were a coin spinning out of control, cast off, and tossed, but not away, we were tossed into a wishing well, in the hopes that maybe the water could wash away the damage. I look through the waters we wished on every day, wondering if I’ll see you through the distorted, but transparent fluid that runs through our veins like poison because even if the ink of our promises that we wrote out on flesh, as  a binding contract found its way into those dark waters of our wishing well, even it could not be as toxic as that deadly liquid we doused our loyalty in, because it was made out of wishes, and though water shouldn’t be considered equivalent to venom, never underestimate just how lethal it is, because nothing is more poisonous than something that appears pure, but is just the opposite, and truthfully, that is all you proved yourself to be.

I look through those poisoned waters made of liquid wishes and tears, but I never see you there.

Your black eyeliner was quite a change from last time I saw you, because the last year, all you did was line your eyes with Pride and Pettiness, well I’ll watch you fade off into the shadows until you become one because I don’t care anymore.

I’ll raise my hand and spread my fingers to bid you farewell so I don’t need to speak because I can’t, I’m busy choking on fire, and the smoke is leaving its trail so that if you ever want to find me, you will just need to follow the trail of ashes so that I may slam the door in your face, facing up to the fact that sometimes, even if you don’t let it go, you can stop getting involved with the burden of the past, because it’s been passed on far too many generations of different versions of myself each year.

I’m starting a new chapter, and you just don’t deserve a role in it, so when I spread those fingers, maybe the cobwebs I couldn’t bring myself to sweep away will finally blow away in the wind. The wind that is nothing but a draft coming in through the door you left open when you left just to linger in my doorway for months, well I hope I slammed your fingers in the doorframe when I finally shut it on you. You’re still waiting in the window though, naturally.

Well, my Pain and yours are a couple shades off, and I’m sort of sick of matching you anyway, so I’ll draw the curtains too, because that’s the only way to let in natural light, when the artificial lamps are outside and the candles and burning suns are indoors, away from you, after all, how could anything bright exist near someone who exudes so much forced darkness such as you?

Well, I don’t match you anymore, and thank God for that, because I certainly would look even worse than you already do dressed in that color of Hypocrisy, and just keep in mind, even though I’m wearing these grudges trimmed with bitterness, and even though that might be a pretty unflattering look for someone like me, whose very skin is woven out of Broken shards, it’s only an accessory to remind me not to forget. I wear Memories, even though you gave them to me, even though we made the together, I still like them so sure I’ll wear them, but that doesn’t really matter, because with the burdens on my wrist, I can still wear Hope.

And you never, ever will.

So maybe I’m not underdressed for this little occasion, I’m just wearing something a little out of fashion, but Hope is comfy, and I like it so that’s fine by me.
so yeah...
This is about a Broken Frienship FYI
i was thinking of you and me
in our pieces and places
thinking about our own selves

not thinking about each other
until time space place things
put us where we breathed air
in same situations here-there

what a strange conspiracy
would place us here to down
grade the importance of selves
ours mine yours each others

we did not prioritize so
this world put us at number
one for each others for some
time leaving us without options

we made do with companionship
some brief moments of time
where we prioritized each other
then time space place things

moved without us a tidal wave
of shifting things so we shifted
too and moved to others priorities
but you were fortunate enough

to take a plus one for these
black-tie events while i carry
the heavy space around me as if
it is an option a conscious choice

no one rsvp-ed as my plus one
thus no witnesses to call me out
when i don a new face to greet
the faces i meet prepared to leave

every second every day- i barely
remember those i met a minute
a blink a movement ago but
music forges ahead life brims

knowledge is added and crushed
into dust by the relevance of time
disallowing for anyone to put any
hold onto it with intellect or paper

my song remains empty silent fake
lights fake smiles fake laughs fake
fake tears fake companionship so
helplessly temporary i feel the

drowning air of words unsaid anxieties
untested in my bones at my lips as i
slowly nervously keep moving always
being rushed in as a late attendance

by an impatient usher too busy with
bigger details to explain the rules
of a party where i always arrive late
with none to take my coat at the door

i remain hopelessly dressed in red
dungarees worn since i was three
my version of a skintight red dress

painfully obviously underdressed
Aaron LaLux Oct 2017
Comfort Over Fashion

Making the Stuffy Suits nervous,
uncomfortable under all their outerwear,
which is ironic because we’re the ones underdressed,
because it’s still comfort over fashion and function over form,

so I guess it’s not that ironic,
that I didn’t iron anything I have on,
honestly these words speak for me,
I don’t have to say a thing as I sit in the front,
row of the show with a girl as good as gold,
I don’t have to prove anything to any of you,
never let your perception,
of their perception of you fool you,

better yet,
never let,
your perceived perception,
of their assumed perception,
fool you,

it’s not our fault that they feel uncomfortable,
we didn’t commit their sins for them,
we didn’t those two stiff shoes on their feet,
they chose their own clothes and decided to wear them,

we didn’t place them in their own insecurities,
so don’t let their insecurities make you feel insecure,
you’re not obnoxious it’s the sausage that they ate,
stuffed their face now they feel nauseous and awkward,

it’s not your date that’s making them nauseous,
it’s the sausage and the conscience that can’t be washed quick,
so stop this feeling awkward because they feel awkward nonsense,
just stop it and let us be us because to be us is an honor,

let you be your self let us be us,
and let them just be their uncomfortable selves,
all overdressed with all their uncomfortably stuffy stuff,

and we can just continue to make the Stuffy Suits nervous,
uncomfortable under all their outerwear,
which is ironic because we’re the ones underdressed,
because it’s still comfort over fashion and function over form…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆

@aaronlalux EVERYWHERE


Julie Anne Lail Feb 2010
First time, commercial coffee shop
overindulgence, over laden with portfolio,
books, purse, and now cup: underdressed.
Far too few layers for a
shower of cotton *****
sticking to eye-lashes and hair.

Journeying from coffee shop
to bus stop; urban miles away.
piles of melty cotton *****
grab at my inappropriate shoes.
Too much milk and water
turn me off to Christmas in a cup

so I stick out my tongue
and allow my taste buds a play date with Jack Frost instead.

A lifetime away
a new place with new playmates.
This time leaves and stinky berries
push me on to my destination.
A new coffee shop with bells on the door
boasts bashfully of the same overindulgence.

This one small, cozy like
a thrift store couch or kittens.
Community and friendship present
me with that first cup of Christmas.
Someone from that other world
whispers the memory to me.

Again, my tongue
experiences the most joy on this memory experience.
The clouds race golden
As be chariots
The sun is born
Like the deviants

As gusts of wind
****** the thoughts
Underdressed
The chest it coughs

While Major Clank
On wheels and stub
Bellows out and
Rubs the nub

Then by runes
the best made plans
Test the dikes
And angst of dams

The age of truth
The youth desired
Across the space
without the wires

The universe comes
In a box
Neatly packed
Shelved , detoxed

And all because
Annointed by rain
The blue sky morning
Clouds it's pain
Notes (optional)
Dreams of Sepia Jun 2015
a love song
by O. A. Unwin

for Joseph Rembrandt Clarke
poet of the Bronte Country


Immanuel Kant
'' We are rich not in what we possess
but in what we can do without''




I.


Midnight hospital rooms flicked eyelashes
off the slow duel of hours

imagine tall lynch mob grass
or Sing a Song of Sixpence or Bye, Bye Miss American Pie forever

Today I remembered my upbringing
spoke of Turner,Ginsberg,human rights,
painted, swore,tore up a newspaper


the Nurse looked at me and said
' Not doing very well now, are we''
Dear Roman Empire, Tribunals


Otherwise this Southern town's
all hills, steeples, clouds
unsteady heartbeat of sandstone swept sideways


occasional channel fog krimi & arthouse
and lives ending whiskey half way to the sky




Welcome,set down your bags
to you I am a stranger in your land
to me you were a visitor in my town

Recently I have learnt that those who love
live life on the wrong side of the looking glass
and are forever being given speeding tickets


I also wander Redcliffe Wharf these days by the swallows' nests knowing that Angels tread the earth in the form of people like you

I have been there.
I have seen the Light.
I have drained my soul
out in tears Absalom oh Absalom
I have known the Wall
of my prodigal body a Tempest
Angel wings clipped by old ladies
on Old Market bus stops
catkin feet rotating the underdressed night
under the Arsenic Wheel of Stars
I have gambled my future
on the mere shout of your name
I have risked my very life

I should be a woman serene as a fish by now in a pond by a mansion house beneath Redwoods

this is not dignified.


Dearest, did I **** up
may I call you this
or shall we be
empty footsteps
Stasi hallways
a disconnected phone

No. Wait.
I am doing this all wrong

Dearest, gentle zeitgeist poet
of Yorkshire and the North
the way your writing
fleets me of your subtle frame
remembered briefly from one night
the inner fire of your face
and eyes mysterious as pagan gods
or lonely hermit huts and bright
as Northern Seafront lights
blinking renegade the dusk
amid the heady din of amusement arcades
the smog lilt of your lovely voice
now I know these things about you
I am a Matryeshka lost
but at least it's easier to write
of imagined boyish swagger to Elvis
or the way you might also sing jazz
I belt out Duke Ellington in the bathtub
oh lets dance lets dance


Turn, turn
Sunset on Sunset
pages, pages back
I am an August rose
in bloom over you
in Welsh view suburbs
A Brothers' Grimm fairytale
that mother cuts down
and I tie it back onto it's stalk
with a vial of water
as if it's calling to me
to say  'thanks for letting me die here'
red, red, Russian red
that's no way to make your bed
but it reminds me of my Grandmother's garden
so it's also English
and then there's the thought of you
so it must be French red,
the color of love
Existentionalism and Rousseau
Elinor and Marianne
hothouse flowers or wild
I was always the latter
wild, wild
a bold freedom of a child.




in Jane Austen's ' Sense and Sensibility'  the heroines, Elinor and Marianne's contrasting characters
are described by their love of flowers. Marianne prefers wild and this
is a tribute to her free, delicate spirit, the stern Elinor prefers hothouse.








I.I


This is bad.
I'm done dancing.
actually I was recently a mermaid
& my legs still hurt on land
I can't write good poetry about this.
It's too serious.
It's all je ne sais quoi
& unknown potential of star signs
I've read of the way you wrote
of a girl all bells and incense
and think now that oh you are Love, love
love itself-fragile and kind
beneath that manner bold
and cheek as a Sunday brass band bright
' Your name's a bit of a mouthful isn't it'
that's what you said,right?
but you can't fool me,Love
are you the all the vibrant flair of gentleness in my Soul

your trance of attention to detail
the way you've loved places and people
the thought that there is such a man
pierces me like Van Gogh's last hours




dearest, dearest
you're my drug
that's just the way that I am,
or used to be
I'm a Romantic.
Neither capitalist
Nor communist?
Me too.
Soulmate.
Yep..
Drastic.

But that's
all the word that's left.
Now I'm just in trouble
and need wine.

To think I'm usually
quite good at Scrabble.
I don't normally do Kitsch.
I promise.Be Kind.
I must remind myself of this:

Love is a house of cards.
could we just be a plane trail
a radio signal
a satellite
forbidden bliss.




I.I.I


You're right
the Southern middle classes are ****** up.
as for me Dad all kindly alcoholism
and Kolobok* frame died
Step-Dad walked out.
All my umbrellas broke.

I've tried

but it was pointless loving my parents
poetry and paleontology
just can't live together.

*
I should have been an heiress
but my mother
lazily lost the place
and kept me poor & this stings
or did till I grew a backbone.
Our landlord's in New York.
Our house
is surrounded by cypress trees

You only live once.

or so I thought.
but I've lived and lost so many times
that I'm simply glad that I just bought a typewriter
for a quid
and am proud.

* Kolobok - a character from a Russian folk tale, made out of dough.

I.I.I

**** this curiosity.
A question.
Arise, arise Atlantic dreamer.
Why are you you
America, Europe and England
and goodness knows what else



By Descartes's* fire
I beseech you
are you a dream
Am I Ariel,
or else
a marvel comic heroine
pick and choose
toss your dice


Lets face it
we are both gamblers
because we're not afraid to feel
& we are both Kafka
when I read you
I'm the Zen
of my transnational dreams
I can't help this.
Where are the boys I used to kiss in my head.
This is maybe just how the Mad are.
I'm mock bubblegum brains.
You are my roman candle


as I said
I'm not a little Bristolian
& Southerner at heart
so I'm a pirate.
that's that.

I am sewing our flag in neon thread
I am eyeing you up
the way Smugglers eye up cargo
the way Kings draw up maps
the way salt melts in water

& the way books looked and felt
has always been important
so you must know
my mother read me Ruskin as a child.



Tell me, friend
could we be Northern lights
by whom & what was the last film you saw
Woody Allen,
Wim Wenders,Gatsby.
lets make a list
have you seen
'Goodbye, Lenin'
it's hilarious.
tell me of yourself

Berlin, Berlin
einz zwei drei
no, this is not the Polizei

or Blitzkrieg grandmothers
just hide and seek
Do you like gingerbread
Why is my neighbor called  Pete.

* Rene Descartes - 1596-1650, french philosopher
* Ariel - Ariel, a magical spirit from Shakespeare's ' The Tempest'
* Ruskin is one of Rembrandt's favorite authors
* I used to live in Berlin
* One, two, three, no this is not the Police
Please be kind. This is a highly personal poem. There is more to it but it's too long to post in one go. It's the true story of my love for a fellow poet & how I wandered 3 days & nights through the town of Bristol in the rain, without sleep, calling his name & later ended up in hospital against my will for what they called psychosis just because for a while I was scared for my life. A diagnosis I hope to overturn someday. The poem starts off talking about the hospital. At about this point I told Rembrandt of my love & of my tragic experience & he rejected me. This was 2 years ago now & I'm still trying to get over it. I hope to publish this poem someday as testimony to my love for R. & this experience.
W Winchester Oct 2019
I feel like I'm being held back
Or maybe like I'll have a panic attack

Those I care about don't feel the same for me
And I can't help but feel like I'll never be free

If I stay too long I'll disappear
I'll bid you adieu and see you next year
Olivia Kent Nov 2014
Go out.
Buy beautiful clothes.
Dress for vanity's sake.
Spend buckets of dosh,.
To make you look posh.
It's so sublime.
All rather petty.
The real being lives under the clothes.
Beneath that mop of tangled hair may dwell a diamond.
A bright blue sapphire that catches the sun and plays with it.
An emerald that sparkles in the grass.
A precious stone that's eternally yours.
What more could any man want.
(C) Livvi
JJ Hutton Dec 2012
she was underdressed, overtouched. and kept ironing out her napkin at the bar. with blue ink she wrote his last name in place of her own. the fan spun off-kilter. the bartender finished his third vegas bomb. one too many.
Dreams of Sepia Sep 2015
Love is this...
.......
............
,,,,,
catkin feet rotating the underdressed night under a casino wheel of stars
..........or else a Tempest of Soul loud as a fishmonger
...............99p cola bottles & lonesome underdogs
.............that time you laughed on helium
... '**** me' neon signs in the street
...................sweet onion breath delirium
.................Millais's Ophelia all wasted & peeling from suburban billboards.
......................the time Virginia Woolf drowned & all the birds
forgot how to sing in Greek.
..............are we there yet
..............are we feeling the beat, beat, beat
..............of this raindrop
.........................do we need postage stamps.
................................why is your neighbor called Pete.
.........why did you kick a dog, Mamma.
............nothing is that which is understood
............why are you staring at this poem.
Kyle Kulseth Nov 2012
Write some words on my blank page face
They'll trickle down into my mouth
There they'll be slurred, but still flow out--
          now yours? now mine?
          Shared property?
Joint custody of low opinion
Seems ungainly, seems unwise
     when miles of snowfall separate
               by hundreds,
                      tens,
                    and ones.

Miles of squares and cylinders
Of circles, splotches, mandelbrots
in whites and blacks swarming and buzzing
     warring in the hissing static.

Hissing static, searing cold
Underdressed on Tuesday morning. Shivering
chattering teeth mouth curses, shattering
     winter air with whiskey breath
     and wishful thoughts.

Write words upon my blank-line lips--
     "Disloyal," "faithless," "stupid," "shameless."
They're falsehoods, true, but they're tattoos
I guess I'll wear them for a while.

Such lies flow down my throat
Now nameless but for lies, I'll turn
I'll the crawl the miles home.
Suzanne S Mar 2018
My mum tells me to be careful as I close the front door
Every footstep the tick of a bomb about to go off
And I know that she will worry until she hears me return
That maybe this time I wasn’t careful enough
But I know Careful
Careful is a woman who walks in our skin when the door shuts behind us
Faceless and watchful
With keys jammed between each finger
And her honey voice is flowing through a perpetual conversation with the home screen of her phone
Her gait wide and her hood up,
hair down but tucked away
She never looks up
only shifts her eyes from left to right on a pendulum trajectory determined to read the cadence of the shadows
Like they are palms or tea leaves or a CCTV in operation sign on the front of a shop window
On the walk home
She is always moving
A waterfall rushing down the steepest drop to get back home with all her foundations in tact
Careful is always waiting for the other shoe to fall
She is texting texting texting details of her plans
Where she has been
where she is going
what is the license of the taxi she is in
Are the doors locked as soon as she shuts them?
How salty is too salty for a margarita or a tequila or a glass of water
Can anyone vouch for the milliseconds that her drink was out of her sight?
She has a  pair of earphones attached to nothing jutting from her ears
and her key clawed hands wrapped tightly around a can of pepper spray
And her car is parked right outside the building
Careful is always a woman living in a war zone
where the enemies can be the ones that she has trusted most
Or strangers that cast long shadows
She is a landmine that is always in danger of being stepped on
She is made into a three star salad that the jury reject because she was underdressed
Overexposed like the photos that Careful should never have sent
Because even she knows that she cannot exist
A woman is always careful
But never careful enough.
Purple Rain Jan 2016
Society has taught,
That I should hold my head down and be quite
That the person who did it
Isn't the one to blame...
That expressing what happened
Is worst than it happening

Society has taught,
that **** is a joke
And it only happens to the ones who deserve it
That if you look underdressed,
It's your fault
If you walk alone in the dark
Your asking for it
I have been taught,
That **** is the cost of life
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
i like the thought of the dynamic between words such
as presupposition  supposition and proposition -
i'm holding a book of philosophy is one hand
and a newspaper in the other: one certainly feels heavier -
   so many lives are documented
daily, without a fail, and it's sad to say: they don't
matter... but that's what it feels like
holding a book of philosophy and a newspaper:
         people get degraded into
things:
             res absquecogito (a thing
without a thought - actually
a thing without the verb of thought,
what with thought being the crowned
prince of nouns):  some do say that
thinking if the doing part or not doing
anything...
     sometimes i write and think i do not exist,
such is the overpowering stance of the people...
     but you're still left with newspaper in
one hand, and a book on philosophy in the other...
  the reason that philosophy doesn't solve anything
is because philosophy is a word of practiced
misanthropy - it just says:
i'm here, my thinking is hardly utopia:
but i don't want you to experience my problems
and make them real or phantasmagorical
as the sold solution: you avoid me,
i avoid you: we'll be fine.
  hence the juggling of of presuppositions,
suppositions, propositions and
      trying to keep your mouth shut
with enough pronoun surgery to an out-dated
Michael Jackson face and enough prepositional
leeway to protest for an amendment
to protect and: altogether losing that freedom,
readied for shouting as is the case.
what a difference though...
        a literary medium "siding" with the people,
and a literary medium "siding" with itself...
         what a disparity between the two...
       such is the shitstorm:
presupposition(s), suppositions,
   preposition(s) and propositions -
      the a before a god,
suppose there is a god,
     then let us presuppose that suppose / supposedly
so?          proposing something also works
with the same dynamic, a proposition has
to be grounded in a preposition -
                           presupposition dynamics are fun though,
you have no propositions for them,
        all you have are prepositional shrapnel itemisation
a- (without, by way of indirect)
     and           -the (bad mannered pointing at it, or by
way of direct)         articulation: summed with an -ism.
         prepositional dynamism has nothing suppositional
concerning god, hence it has no propositional
      about the most economically franchised / effective
variation of philosophical expression: lost the narrative,
ergo we encourage aphorisms and maxims.
       language needs systematisation to reveal to us
individually what words we'll be juggling systematically,
perhaps it's the re- and re- and and re- res
             reflective reflexive repetition thing...
or it might be throwing a guarding prefix
into the argument: akin to the already stated
within a framework of the pre- vs. pro- attaché
that comes prior to the suggestion...
    supposing there is a god vs. presupposing
  the supposition that there is a god... zenith: what's god?
nadir: propositioning that there is a god vs.
         prepositioning that there is a supposition of
god...
         equilibrium? propositioning a presupposition
vs. the supposition of a prepositioning:
the arguments will never end, it's just a question
how you make peace with the shared experience of
internalising sounds and encoding them in 26 characters
that are, to be frank, underdressed in terms of formalising
a standardised accented basin...
at its height language can become akin to
arithmetic, philosophers are, actually, brilliant arithmetic
artists, they can't write you a Tolstoy,
or a Camus... but they can write you a great 1 + 1 = 2...
  it's not even being economic wird words,
   it's more like Robinson Crusoe was stranded on
a beach, his tools included a coconut and a matchstick:
build me Philadelphia! obviously it didn't happen
overnight... but it somehow happened.
           that's why mathematical orthodoxy has
nothing to do with mental or signatured arithmetic,
              philosophy meets that disparity too,
obviously this stance isn't a Lady Gaga moment of
cool populism: it's shadowy and obscure,
because why would it not be so?
                  philosophers are the great arithmetic
conglomerate of spell-checks...
           hence no Napoleon invading Russia
and courtesy talk of privilege over a samovar session
and more of the odious rubric:
                 and nul scores for coherency and
creating an imaginative rekindling from a mistake made...
nul scores!
     mathematicians are bad at numerical arithmetic,
philosophers are only good at alphabetical arithmetic
(and yes, it's a kind of arithmetic:
made really difficult by babel-compounding
of non-distinct units due to the missing diacritical
marks): and in the Crimean chimera sense?
      mathematicians are good at abstracting arithmetic
in their stance on isolating symbols,
whereby π is designated the 3.14 bubble...
       and pretty much all of the Greek is scientifically
prone to encourage a stabilisation...
     people like us, working from such heights into
wording everything in an alchemical format of
lodging and connecting things together have to necessarily
spot obstacles... i know that i stress the Edenic
circumstance of the English language without
diacritical marks, but are serious journalistic outlets
suggest: about 14% of English girls are vaguely literate.
       the existence of the "other" arithmetic is
quiet poignant although remotely acknowledged...
it appears rightly asserted when someone actually has
a competence with a language (encoding an obscure number
of variations of sprechen): but still faulter / flawters /
                 ah! falters on what's otherwise, clearly
a very easy arithmetic puzzle: 0 1 2 3 4
                        a b c d e
calculator                       hence put       b d e
together into a coherency passed down to others...
cul de sac, i.e. bed.
                    a bit like the alphabet cut into three:
0 (a)     z (26):
         it emerged from the lost clarity of English ponce:
or keeping onto power, spellcheck had to be invented,
along with algorithm search engines to correct
what would otherwise be non-distinct correlatives:
had they been properly attired with distinct barriers -
  could have been worse,
we could have had Arabic as the tongue of globalisation,
but then again, as the myth goes (according to
cradle of filth within her ghost in the fog):
                                 an arabian nightmare probably
doesn't envision an alien invasion.
Jayne E Apr 2019
With fickle Freddy Frosts first showing
and the rising of ******* and
limbs fine tactile hairs, laguna,
filaments of sensation *****
quivering and striving
stretching toward a now absent warmth,

she always did have her sunny side showing, bare legs tucked under her
buttocks, leaning back on her hands
under that big Totara tree, face tilting
skyward and sandals kicked aside,

searching out her brighter sunny day
even now, with leaves falling down
the autumnal mix of ambers
Loamy greens and wooded browns
the earth cool and damp underfoot
her naked legs, arms defiant, barely crying for freedom!

Shivered morn's and eve's descend quickly
winters first indicators bringing
a refusal to employ blankets
hope tightly clinging to summers
silk sheets from Portugal,
feather light, soft as air,
just how she likes her thread count
high and expensive, sumptous,
(her pedantic obsession with fine linens)
totally ineffectual as calefactor,
so, she shivers on stubborn as ever,
Stay summer! Stay!

Even her loyal steadfast cicadas
have fallen silent now, summers last guard fallen to shortened days
and longer lonelier cool nights,
it is now she starts to miss a warm body
companionship, a worthy bedfellow
one who will not protest her cold toes
vicious advances on their warmer flesh

The sacrifice well worth the reward
of her warmest, ardent affections
tender embraces and softly spoken
murmurings of love and passion,
her full surrender to your body
with hers, she gives good, good love,
both body and mined soul deep too.

The countdown to clocks pushed onwards
pulls a wustful sigh from blueish lips
she is underdressed, flimsy chiffon
on a day made for heavier cloths
persists with summer daydreaming
of warm strong hands restoring her joy
under cold nights cloaked bed covers,
hot stolen kisses from a winter lover.

J.C. "littlebird" 05/04/2019.
Stephan Sep 2016
.

I was in a meeting, the boardroom was full
testosterone flowed everywhere
Dressed in a polo, but high dollar suits
were what the execs chose to wear

I sat at the end, with a chair next to me,
where no one decided to sit
Feeling quite weird, I was new to this place
and wondered if I’d be a fit

Them in their ties and me underdressed,
my khakis were old, kind of thin
Button down shirts and cuff links of gold
I guess there’s no chance I’ll fit in

A half hour gone, bored out of my mind,
when I couldn’t believe what I saw
A beautiful woman, a pant suit of silk,
came in from out there in the hall

Her hair chocolate brown with eyes just the same,
she rushed as she looked for a seat
Then sat in the chair, I was happy to share,
now this was a wonderful treat

She said, “**** I’m late, I forgot to stop
and look at my schedule last night”
I said, “That’s okay, they’ve not much to say
I’m sure that it will be alright”

We sat there a while, I stared at her smile,
just hoping she wouldn’t catch me
When then she stood up, it was her time to talk
my god, she was smart, I could see

A room full of men, one amazing woman
and she put them all in their place
Yes, she knew her stuff and I was impressed
but the board, oh the look on their face

They grumbled and groaned and snorted a bit,
but knew today something they learned
I laughed deep inside, when one then stood up
and said to us “meeting adjourned”

I said, “You were great, even though you were late,
and you look so good in that suit”
She said, “Thanks so much, I’m glad you approve
and by the way I think you’re cute”

I got up the nerve and asked her if she’d
like to join me for coffee or tea
She said, “That sounds nice, but I’d much prefer
a drink, sounds much better to me”

I said , “It’s a date and please don’t be late”
She giggled and flashed me a grin
It’s then that I knew, no worries at all,
this place I would surely fit in
Elizabeth Feb 2014
I am what no one writes about-
I am pink lipstick and elbows
I am neither delicate nor passionate
I am clean socks and the lack of smell that television has, when compared to books

I am what no one writes about-
I am shirts which hang rather than draping over supple skin
I am walks on the beach cut short abruptly
I am the itch at the back of your neck
I am what no one writes about.

I am what no one writes about-
I am unrebellious but unsuccessful daughters
I am unpeculiar unspectacular and uninspiring
I am underappreciated when underdressed
I am unthought of and unspoken.
I am who no one writes about.
Paul Rousseau Mar 2012
She calls my eyes mysterious
My therapist calls them depressed
I say she’s schizophrenic
See says she’s underdressed
They ask us how we met
She left it for me to address
“From one lunatic to the other-“
“In your mind?”
-“Be my guest.”
Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
You have twenty one seconds
Until the cab is here
You’re on the list
Friends are here again

Going up
Going out
Underdressed
Yet again

Thank you, thank you all
It isn’t fair
He’s with us
He is missed

Map it out
Retrace it all
Back to the forest
Back to the hill

Barbed wire
Sealed from sanctuary
Popping out at you in 3D

This headache won’t leave
Slack jawed and hunched over
Mad men on speed
Drenched in sweat

Paint the crowd
A crowd of a different color
Rampaging forward
Effervescent

Cavemen in the control room
Knobs and buttons
***** in his court
Scoff at it

It’s a safety ramp
Coming down from school
He’s not going back
Too much to lose
Poetic T Sep 2015
I slept the cold night in my black sleeping bag
Quietly I slumbered, not removed yet the price tag
My hair caught in the teeth, yet I was still time did drag
I was of the notion of underdressed in just my rags.

Eyes wide open on the bench, oblivions vision
I was exposed for all to gaze upon eyes on collision
Was I wanting to be here? that was not my decision
Feeling I was missing myself as opened up for excision.

I was silent that whole time my lips never shifted,
lonely as my belongings now strewn and sifted
I gave others my unwanted, each hopeful now gifted
Death was a silence I was gone but now I am lifted
Breeze-Mist Mar 2017
Sitting in a large hotel room
Thinking of the competition coming soon
One person in my left has a binder out
The kids across the hall are trying not to shout
Fixing up the gadgets at the last minute
While some play board games in the mindset to win it
It's 11:30 at night, I'm eating cold Chinese
Win or lose, fail or fly, I do as I please
We all cheer when the fourth comes back with ice
This moment is my paradise

Sitting on a mountain the temperature of snow
I eye the massive valley below
The farms and forests make a patchwork quilt
The streets and towns are embroidery of silk
The sun rises, setting the treetops on fire
My campmates wake up slow with some ire
Out here, I'm awed by mother earth's ways
As my friends and I decide how to navigate our days
I don hiking clothes under the day's new light
This moment is my paradise

Summer in full swing, the crickets cry
As twilight yeilds stars in the sky
We wander the camp, the ocean roars in the distance
Masters of our fate, we don't need assistance
Whether at the beachfront, ziplining, or boardwalks
We run like a fox pack, not caring who gawks
As we think of the adventures of the world ahead
There's nowhere I'd like to be instead
As our flip flops crack on the ground the camp comprised
This right here is my paradise

We're running around another big city
So much to see, and I have my group with me
We just got out of our musical clinic
Now it's time to explore the town, see the magic in it
We'll meet up at five, for a dinner at seven
We'll go on a boat and get back at eleven
Right here, right now, we can make our own way
Free from routine, we get to have a say
We're a bit confused, a little underdressed
We still need chaperones, and we're way underslept
Even with all of that, this will more than suffice
This right here is my paradise
Some of my favorite memories.
Samantha Goodman Dec 2013
When you show up at a party after exams
underdressed
and when you're tired
and your hair just looks a mess.

If you're driving me in autumn
and your nose is pink
or you've finished watching a game with the guys
and you're pouring the dregs of your beer down the sink.

When you tell me stories about your childhood
and I'm lucky enough to catch that glint in your eye
I might see a flash of your girlfriends past
and remind you you're a lucky guy.

On longs walks up the stairs with you
and you tell me we should take a rest
you seem a little harried then
but this is when I look my best
Sam Temple Feb 2016
olive drab down-filled vest
shaking every single hand
speaking only of great success

hair never askew or messed
discussing a long-term plan
olive drab down-filled vest

information presented is never guessed
education is the stump he stands
speaking only of great success

the life he leads is truly blessed
though, the new climate is killing his tan
olive drab down-filled vest

never a time for being underdressed
when becoming an Oregon man
speaking only of great success

bringing to our program some Louisiana zest
Oregon seems an interesting place to land
olive drab down-filled vest
speaking only of great success
CLStewart May 2015
Overzealous and underdressed I have no home to call my own, so where has my benevolence gone? Am I an antiquity, am I a forgotten lost treasure of a long ago age where beauty explodes feverishly in a raw
******* ****?  Silken sunken memoirs deep within the pastings of grimy faced lullaby’s etched away in a dust covered passion book called familiar.
Q Sep 2020
I imagine your hands dwarfing someone else's and the image puts something bitter on the back of my tongue
I imagine you sweeping back hair that doesn't curl rebelliously at your fingers, insisting your hand stay with them
Words wet with dismay stick to my dry throat and if I could cough them out thered be nothing but different configurations of "stay"
I imagine your lips covering some spectre of a woman who is not me and I am amazed by the vastness of my hate

I remember the warmth of your chest as you pressed into my side, crowded me to the table, and my heart leapt into my throat
I couldn't think past awareness of you, felt you down my spine and into my shoes
That little was enough to do to leave me gasping
I'd be frigid if I insisted I could ever do without it

I remember kissing the mouthpiece of a roll and inhaling acrid smoke and you pressed the tip of your spliff to my lips before I had finished coughing and
Chased smoke like it was an ever-distant horizon vanishing into my chest
I am a ruined woman, stuck dreaming and waiting, there's humiliation that comes with this sort of infatuation

You get me tense, keep me constantly on the precipice of something, torso dangling over a railing, always threatening the possibility of free fall
I can hardly deal with my day to day humanity, the depravity you spark is beyond me and my meager means of processing

You look at me and I feel distinctly underdressed, publicly indecent, unnecessarily yearning as though I've never once known decorum
I fumble as I rarely do, trip over words like they're untied shoes, and my heart is imprinted under the press of your thumb
I've caught myself often wondering if I am merely imagining the heat of the summer and I am roasting in your company
My skin oversensitive, my heart aches with fresh burns, but when you leave I freeze and claw you back to me

The way that my mind, ever caterwauling, overthinking, shaking is so immediately quiet and still to give your voice room
That the world narrows to a point and the buzz of reality fades and I can focus on you
That the fear I cradle is smothered by the weight of your consideration
There's so much that qualifies as perfection that its unfamiliarity makes me consider running from whatever it is brewing between you and me.
hello again
Madeysin Aug 2015
Nothing makes you feel more fancier, more romancier. Than new underwear, & fine lace covering your *******. Underdressed, I've never heard of such a thing...
Wade Redfearn Oct 2019
(This one is for El Paso and Dayton. It was written a while ago.)

In the dream,
  she is wearing a dress of starry organza,
stiffened by sweat,
  she, like me, is old,
and after several hours,
  tired of dancing.
I am conscious, suddenly,
  that only bones hold our clothing up
  and that mine ache like an old fence in the rain.

The room is a library, two stories, with a ladder on wheels,
lit in the middle by a heavy chandelier, which drops
two thousand lumens onto the floor just below it,
and is still too weak to reach the corners,
  the lee side of the wrinkles in my trousers,
  the inch between the bone at the back of my ear
  and the hair at the base of my neck,
such that when I come near to her,
we create wrinkles in one another,
and a black lapse in the center of the room.

Mass is rarely consistent in dreams;
you think you know how a shoulder ought to feel,
and you are correct, until you look for more than knowing,
  such that she feels, in turns, as real as I am,
  and just like me,
  and just like the shape my hand has taken,
  finally, like the void I’m careful not to touch.
The profuse shadows wash around my feet and eyes,
the stars in her fabric are dusked by absences,
dark pools collect around her knees,
  maim her ribs,
  drip from her cheeks,
and begin to grow and seep,
as she vanishes into them.

I repeat the touch to search for her again,
I search for her again and I am in a forest,
fourteen and a boy scout underdressed for the cold,
**** in my hands and flashlight in my teeth,
one hand on the trunk of a pine that I can hardly see,
listening to the trickle I make against the bark,
and a fearful groaning in the deeper woods
she moves and the dress moves with her,
it rustles; I am exposed to the light and blinded.

Smelling of pine needles and **** and searching
for a clasp in the dark that will prove her
  beyond the doubt that only I can see her
  and the doubt she lives at all,
  not merely me or as a shape my opposite,
I settle on a place in the fabric below where I remember a shoulder,  
I find something flexible and sharp.
  It gives with a squeeze.

The fabric drops,
the stars pile in pure layers,
her raiment is bright,
  white seeds floating
  over a blue chasm,
where the shadows have joined.

The body is monstrous; a calendar of injuries,
from swollen ankles and clawed feet chained together,
skin mottled to six colors by constant burns,
where ******* would be, flat, grown over
by a bark cadaverously pale,
the shoulders caved in,
as if by a yoke.

Her eyes are blue and solemn.
She looks at me as if I could heal her
if I would only touch her.
I press my hand to a knotted scar
and feel it pass through.
Sydney Bittner Jan 2017
Orange sunlight on your skin
on your tongue the morning dew
I don’t know what to write about
I’m so full of you.

Soft soft grass on the soles of your feet
Giggles that bubble from your chest
God help me when you’re naked
I feel underdressed.
Aa Harvey Sep 2018
In search of love


Through barren wastelands my heart does travel,
In search of my salvation.
No guiding star can this boy see, to lead me to gratification.
Only mortals can be seen, through the eyes of this human,
No angel light shall bring me warmth,
Until we shall meet in Heaven.


The self confessed, underdressed,
Peasant marching to his death.
Fate has ruled my destiny, shall be spent alone,
Until I am truly worthy, of once again being loved.
Another attempt, to not **** things up,
Another attempt at this feeling called love.


I wish I could tell you how I feel,
But I don’t think you’d be interested.
I wish I could convince you my feelings are real,
And I’m more than infatuated.


I think you’re beautiful and out of my league,
But I think we could love each other, so what do you say?
Would you like to go out for a drink with me,
Or am I kidding myself?
If you could find me attractive;
Maybe I could leave this living Hell.


The fire rages through my soul and burns away my every dream.
My world shall always remain cold, whilst this King has no Queen.


Do you want me?  Tell me you do.
Then I can shower you with love.
Do you want me?  You know I want you.
I’ll give you my heart, but please never break my trust.


No man can stop time,
No day is picture perfect.
No love is always good for you,
No matter how much you make it.


But we could make love,
Be loved
And love.


(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Karmen Aug 2018
Can’t complain
Feeling lame
Having this pain
Wishing I could have stayed
Wondering about your day
And if you’re okaye
Did you eat today
Or forget to rest
Be over stressed
Underdressed
Like you getting pressed to impress
Become a version of success
That doesn’t express
What you wish to address
Mateuš Conrad Aug 2022
it was truly a most wonderful day... i would have never thought
that Coldplay were such a grand band live...
it's not that i love them: it's that i just don't hate them...
work started at 3pm... we were supposed to sign in at 2pm...
i was 15 minutes early...
a £1.99 coupon from the Metro meant i could eat
a Big Mac and some fries before the shift...
a father and his little daughter sat down next to me
while a man talked to himself about perverts...
while being underdressed...
the heat was unbearable....
                      ****... i had to take 8 newbies to their shift
locations... i was on turnstiles... giving out wristbands...
i talked a minimum of any possible talk...
thanks you this thank you that became mere
nodding and smiling...
i don't think i touched so many female wrists in one
go... i was working for a hard-on of:
i'm not wearing a hat... or a kippah...
i really felt like ending this day in a brothel...
we finished at 8:30 when Coldplay came on...
we had 30 minutes to spare...
in that free 30 minutes they played my two favourite
songs: adventure of a lifetime and... paradise...
but Coldplay wasn't the Red Hot Chilli Peppers...
i don't hate them: but i don't love them...
i forgot to look at the stage when i saw the entire
Wembley stadium illuminated by those glowing
wristbands we were giving out...
i was there for the atmosphere rather than the band...
i smiled and put my head resting on a clenched fist
admiring humanity...
when humanity allows itself to relax...
and enjoy music...
we finished at 9pm... i didn't eat anything from
circa 2pm... so i went into the Wembley Lahore
curry house... ate at lamb tikka wrap...
sure... i'd love to have stayed for the whole concert...
but i also loved the idea of not queuing up
with the crowd...
       plus?! i'd get paid for the shift until 12am... even
though i finished at 9pm... so?
once i sampled the atmosphere i was glad
to ******* from there...
which meant? each... ****** time...
i have some remains of **** in my body
i get these head-jerks like i'm about to fall asleep
but get rudely woke-up...
at Liverpool street i did what ****-break did in
American Pie: people should stop ******* on the toilet
seats... i'm tired of putting toilet paper all around
the toilet seat... just to sit down and squeeze out
the shy remains of a loaf...
                   but i did... the pressure in my head
decreased a little... i drank a cherry apple cider admiring
Liverpool St. station... got on a train
and ****** off to Goodmayes...
got out... bought a 750ml bottle of cider...
walked around in circles with it.... thinking: best dilate myself...
i need to ****... plus... a dry cider?
after a heavy meal? works like an aperitif...
7.5%... that's the percentage for a cider...
it truly cures your digestive system of any blockage...
i then walked into the Tesco and bought 35cl of
whiskey and some Pepsi... did more circles drinking
about 150cl of the gold heart of ms. amber...

started rubbing my groins attempting to
get an *******... well... half-way through...
   not like a pervert: i was aiming to get something off my chest...
did another round of circle around the brothel...
walked in...
ah! there she was... a pretty plum of plump body type...
i needed that sort of body...
i only booked in for half an hour:
with a body like hers?! cherub plump?
what couldn't: what wouldn't have not done with it?

Michaela... that was her name...
i asked her if i could take a shower... i was sickly sweet
with sweat from the shift...
one hour or half an hour? let's see how it goes...
half an hour first... we'll see...
i'm pretty tired:

thank god for being able to take a shower...
wash my genitals etc.
and relax...

each any every man ought to feel this relief
after a day's worth of work...
whatever that work might be...
i was already admiring her physique from
the get go: her clothes were hardly an obstruction:
more, an invitation...
i do hope the people i work with never find
out about my secret life...
some are married and that's good on them...
i would never i could never love a single woman...
i'm like a ******* in that respect:
i need to be shared around...

it would break my heart to only love one...
to be faithful with only one...
i need more...
i'm the guy who "steals" kisses from prostitutes...
how Michaela jumped straight onto my lips:
like a bee toward a blooming flower...
i can't just tell her no... there's no simplified
version of NO... there's not no aversion to YES
either... it just happens...
i felt like a child with her adamant approach:
kiss me before we start playing hide & seek...
i like the plot of reassuring women...

she asked me whether i smoked, i replied yes...
i asked her: do you drink?
we smoked and drank some whiskey sharpshooters
before *******....
PARA-PARA-PARA-DISE...
it was a quickie... some girls like quickies...
i was feeling selfish: and thinking about shellfish...

i adore prostitutes... this one?
after a a kiss and a oral *** and: what position do you like?
*******: in the meantime:
i fell from my knee altar with a cramp...
ah! ah! CRAMP!
30 minutes was enough...
          oh man... she was butter, loaf, and a croissant
on the side... and: a man like me?
does he require a ring on a finger?
we ****** and then chatted...
Romania this that and the other...
no: i'm not here to **** them...
   i'm here t **** them them... i'm not here to love
them...
even they know the pretenses... of
suggested topic...

but how quick she was kissing  me...
i felt like a child...
kiss me: before i start playing this elevated guise
of hide and seek...
all before the *******: she did mention:
although Khadija didn't mention it...
£30 extra for non-****** *******...
£40 extra for vaginal ******* without
protection..
i'm not only here for half an hour...
and let me tell you...
i have a turtle's body that will be given wings...

i just received the splendours of slob
****** free for? for free!
my adoration for women is unbounded
in any framework if constriction...
love your mother like you might a *****...
or the reverse...
we smoked we drank, we talked...
i thanked her for becoming so relaxed...
to hell with marriage pleasure-dome melancholy...
i walked home back at 2am...

a very beautiful world...
                 but this girl... i kissed her lips: she stole mine...
i stole her eyelids...
we tried to make sense of our musical tastes...
plump body of plum....
           all the right shapes in all the right places...

i don't know why i'm on such good terms
with the MADAME and the "****":
maybe i'm just the type to love and to be loved:
why haven't you visited us more,
frequently, Matthew?
oh **** me, i'm on a first name basis?

next time a ******* steals a kiss from
me:
i ought to know the constellation
are awry....

— The End —