"waifish" poems
We sat stupefied with the expats,
eyes wide open telling lies
between repeats of
La Bamba & Lady Grinning Soul.
Peter Gunn screamed sax
through the hypnotic-haze,
the place was a ******* rat hole.
Sticky seats smelt like
**** burnt toast & dead feet.
A one-ton greasy bartender
sat on a low stool,
drooled on his cigar
rather than smoking it.
He counted his dough
about every six minutes.
Shadows of waifish tired-women
floated by us like wispy-clouds.
With tricks hand-in-hand,
they moved in and out of
the proverbial back rooms,
an odor of primordial-slime hung.
This was what they called
the tropical-island high-life,
a swanky place where ten bucks
could get you an hour of whore-thrills.
It was actually a cheap-ass brothel
disguised as a night club,
tucked away somewhere
in the middle of nowhere,
the skankiest
of Never Never Lands.
It was by far,
the saddest place
I've ever visited on Earth.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 8:24 PM UTC
I’ve begun “The Wasting” once more.
That ragged uncovering of bones and peaks and ridges that crop up along my spine and shoulders.
My scapulas revealing themselves like the bed of a lake as the waters recede.
Indents beside and under my kneecaps, hollows that match the ones slowly sinking themselves back into my cheeks.
And the hipbones…the things I truly crave to see through the paper thin layer of my skin…
Those…I’d starve myself to waifish proportions just to graze my hands along the mountaintops of those things, those sharp little things.
I lose my hair and my colour and my shine just to dig my fingers into the hardness of my breastbone, just to know that my jawbone is an overhang, just to plunge headfirst into the thrill of being thin.
“The Wasting” and I are friends, and I want to drown in her.
Jul 6, 2023
Jul 6, 2023 at 2:50 AM UTC
She was a gamine,
an urchin and a recluse.
Tattered and waifish,
scrounging for some small morsel underneath a city bus.
Tarnished,
a lot like brass that's been exposed to water;
she's splotched.
Even whilst disenfranchised,
she carries some valiance hidden beneath her turncoat.
There is beauty in the loose pages she's giving to the wind.
She is,
and will forever be,
floating in the updraft of a sidewalk vent.
Jan 23, 2011
Jan 23, 2011 at 7:58 AM UTC
. o
f
hu
man
thin
gs: ma
ny doin
g, thing
s human
are more n
eatly couth i
n Into-Dust co
ats of polite var
nish and their ha
ats hang at precise
their teeth ivory and
the smell of their colo
gne catches back at the
throat wearing finest silk
s (but time, time looks bru
tally through their and prim
shoes and trousers. knees sag
eyes hang instantly
languor w
ears them like cheap perfume and
laughter unsuddenly from nowhere
crisps the cheeks of everywaiting sou
l creeks with soon to be dirt bones and
amongst them sprouts something gener
ous. Less close to nearly dead, and has (l
ike a frond has) demure sturdy waifish. its
timber is clothed in blonde lips and eyes lik
e waking almost never(no like daffodils; yes l
ike more them) only daffodils, they are not so b
right, nor as agile, i think but who knows i was o
nly a boy who, from across the street noticed, a girl
pressed between death,
laughing like a *****
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 2:36 AM UTC
The devout of Saint Sophia, the ones who prayed
Venerated, virgin-martyr, holy hunger
The priestesses, vestal tombs. Virgins of Etrusca
What do they know of me?
Waifish, heart-sad, victim of ill womanhood
Persecutor, rejector of the womb,
Denier of her blood.
Apr 27, 2018
Apr 27, 2018 at 7:01 AM UTC
I always imagined September
a woman
Carelessly tousled
Auburn hair
crowned
with multi-coloured flowers
Dressed
in silken smoke
Dancing in a grove of fallen leaves.
I never imagined September
to look like grand-mother
Wrinkled, waifish
Wrapped in a blue waist cloth
A *** in hand
Slowly shambling
towards the sun-dried fields.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
i have(foot brutally)
in grass newly wet
trod
the lick of
waifish
damp
greeness('tween toes particularly futile blushed)at
beads of damson
slung eve,
falls
A
S
T
A
R into earth SWELLS
crystal
keen
glassy summer night
crisply etched in sleeping trees
FLOWERS!at whose
gentler fullness
the jagged suddenly
cold
of
"goodbyesun"
whispered the errant
predictable mountain
slunk
fat
in
dark
i
Aug 6, 2012
Aug 6, 2012 at 10:43 PM UTC
if i should die tomorrow lady
then tonightlady
let me sleep in the tight plume
of your thighs lady
let me lay them apart lady
and i will enter between them
waifish pillars elated
a rolling vibrant howl
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 7:15 AM UTC
erupt gradually a forest
of my limp and eager throat
green ponders waifish
Dec 27, 2010
Dec 27, 2010 at 1:43 AM UTC
staid,
so sober
tossing pages
closed on clover
sank for a sennight
cream
and green
and white
and red
like spring cloudburst on her head
from stride
to sulk
to sleep
to cry
clutch, cradle and cast the die
******
sleeping, sneaking sot
windswept, waifish
closed on clover kept to rot
fold for a fortnight
fix a thousand paper cranes
taking pains until it wanes
cream,
and green
and pallor,
plum
forswears all her working numbs
from sink
to sink
to cough
and cry
contemplates with vacant eyes
the stars above, where they reside
and when they dawn, their bright visage
where could the glimmer be
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 10:11 AM UTC