"wardrobes" poems
A Queen in waiting, a Princess no less.
Each day, a routine before being seen.
For some, a shadow and not of the eye.
The kind you'd find on that of a guy.
An army of pogonophobes in dysphoric confusion.
Each purging our wardrobes,
a repeated delusion.
A leading *******
from a pornographic circus.
The ***** under graduate from
a school of *** workers.
Your Hubby's vision in blue
is our secret down south,
'cause he wouldn't kiss you with
that ***** mouth.
So, I'll stop you there Sizzle Chest
with your cans of Stella
in your pristine white vest.
'Cause this is real easy,
even for you Mr ******
I used to be a Princess but
now I'm a Queen,
recently coronated
after all that I've seen.
Poetry by Kaydee.
Jul 9, 2018
Jul 9, 2018 at 9:43 AM UTC
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
the three of them frozen:
Enrique by the world of beds;
Emilio by the world of eyes and wounded hands;
Lorenzo by the world of roofless universities.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them burned:
Lorenzo by the world of leaves and billiard *****
Emilio by the world of blood and white pins;
Enrique by the world of the dead and abandoned newspapers.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them buried:
Lorenzo in one of Flora's *******
Emilio in the dead gin forgotten in the glass;
Enrique in the ant, the sea, and the empty eyes of birds.
Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three in my hands were
three Chinese mountains,
three shadows of a horse,
three landscapes of snow and a cabin of white lilies
by the pigeon coops where the moon lies flat under the rooster.
One
and one
and one,
the three of them mummified,
with the flies of winter,
with the inkwells the dog ****** and the thistle despises,
with the breeze that freezes theh eart of all the mothers,
by the white ruins of Jupiter where drunks snack on death.
Three
and two
and one,
I saw them disappear, crying and singing
into a hen's egg,
into the night that showed its skeleton of tobacco,
into my sorrow full of faces and piercing bone splinters of moon,
into my happiness of whips and notched wheels,
into my breast troubled by pigeons,
into my deserted death with one mistaken wanderer.
I had killed the fifth moon
and the fans and the applause drank water from the fountains.
Hidden away, the warm milk of newborn girls,
shook the roses with a long white sorrow.
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,
Diana is hard,
but somtimes she has ******* of clouds.
The white stone can beat in the blood of a deer
and the deer can dream through the eyes of a horse.
When the pure forms sank
under the cri cri of daisies
I understood they had murdered me.
They searched the cafés and the graveyards and churches,
they opened the wine casks and wardrobes,
they destroyed three skeletons to pull out their gold teeth.
Still they couldn't fine me.
They couldn't?
No. They couldn't.
But they learned the sixth moon fled against the torrent,
and the sea remembered, suddenly,
the names of all her drowned.
20.5k
Bedroom’s painted fisherman’s blue
There’s a cut out of Hayden Panettiere naked in a pink bikini with a hula-hoop on the back of the door
Copies of British Vogue desperately hidden underneath the bed accompanying an empty bottle of Glen’s
Manchester United duvet cover and matching pillows to boot
The bin’s filled with pre-packed home-made lunches from the last six months
Wardrobes a collection of ill fitting blue jeans bought for me by grandmother and football jerseys for teams that I’ve never even heard of, yet let alone see play a single game
Uniform ironed and sitting out ready for school on Monday at 8am sharp
***** clothes cover mostly all the floor smelling of Lynx’s finest even though there’s an empty laundry basket just waiting in the corner to be used
Inside one of the woolen blazer’s (that is way too big for me) pockets a single unopened ****** and an AES 256-bit encrypted USB stick
An old PlayStation 2, with a single controller; games including FIFA years through 2004 to now, Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell, and GTA.
Blood red shoplifted lipstick that’s now melted hidden in the little secret compartment at the back, meant for network expansion.
Artemis Fowl, Alex Rider, and Harry Potter all adorn the bookcase
Physics, Maths, and IT textbooks remain firmly closed on the desk in addition to a smashed phone from me and Daddy’s last “physical altercation”
Lady Gaga’s “I Like it Rough” is playing in the background on repeat…
Aug 23, 2020
Aug 23, 2020 at 2:43 PM UTC
I read because it paints a picture;
Of the intellectual kind
That shakes me to consciousness
And makes me face reality.
I read because it gives me another life,
Another perspective,
Another mind,
Another sensation,
And makes it surreal.
I read because I travel
From a land of Dark Lords
To a land where Time stops still and then
To a land with magical Wardrobes
Before a land of Desolation
And a land of long Winters but
I wind back to Earth—
The unnatural ground my legs touch and
The poisonous air my nose breathes.
The destructive sound my ears hear and
The chaos my eyes see.
But, I still read what you write
Because it tells me a story
Describes another human
And a powerful emotion
Which strikes that chord
Not making me feel lonely,
Anymore.
It's funny how I read and write, both.
I am the story-teller and
I am the listener.
I am the God and
I am the one who he creates.
I am the heat in the day and
I am the cold in the night.
I am you and
I am me.
But,
Aren't we all the same
If we, both, read and write?
Like we inhale and exhale?
Or like we stay wide awake or in a deep slumber?
Or like we create and destruct?
Or like we live and perish?
Then, why are we different?
But, that is how I read
and this is how I write.
Like, this is how you read.
Now, tell me, how you write.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 8:27 AM UTC
dismay is felt when opening the newspaper
to read Athena's astral charts
on many occasions her predictions are well out
which tend to make the readers doubt
to-day she stated that all Geminis
were in for an adventure
but she failed to also mention
the possibility of a misadventure
Taurus individuals supposedly
are going to win a truck load of cash
they'll be disappointed
should they not collect a stash
she said all Virgos
would be bidding their time
but how would she know
as few of them can march to a rhyme
this pronouncement she had written large
which told of a Capricorn who'd fly to Mars
yet this person hasn't got a rocket
which can propel him to Mars
here was one that reeled me in
she spoke of a Pisces eating a dog
her info was well out of kilter
we all know that all fishes prefer a frog
Athena was glowing in her outlook
for those Cancer folk saying they'd find a bloke
though none of them are in the market
for finding a bloke
she put in a good line for Scorpios
to be careful whilst using the hose
as they might get the nozzle
stuck to their nose
Libras were given an Athena heads up
not to take their dreams too far
why would she say that
when we all know that a Libra dreamer always makes par
she stated that Sagittarius ladies
needed to buy a spring party dress
though they've all got wardrobes
full of lovely floral brightness
what do you think of her
Leo chart for November and December
during these months
will they have a holiday to remember
she made mention of Aquarius souls
by way of Rock and Roll
few of those sixties baby bombers
have the legs to now Rock and Roll
finally her is what she telegraphed
for our Aries cousins in Perth
they'd all be reborn on planet Earth
yet none are seeking a rebirth
Athena's predictive Astrology page
is one we'll all need to thoroughly gauge
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 10:54 PM UTC
there was a little cat and his name was bob
he just love to burgle always on the rob
he would rob the rich and give to those ineed
a very friendly cat a thoughtful cat indeed
climbing up the drainpipes he was very fit
with his torch and sack his little burgle kit
getting in through windows that were left ajar
a proper little thief a litttle burgle star
roaming round the house to see what he could find
that would help the poor he was very kind
looking through the draws and the wardrobes to
searched in every room like the burglers do
then he would get his ***** put it in his sack
wiping off his finger prints not leave his track
then off to help the poor the little cat would go
donating all his ***** gave there hearts a glow
now his deed was done just like robin hood
he had helped the poor just like he said he would.
then he fell asleep tired now was he
happy and content as happy as can be
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC
~
...
*where dreams
and laundry
cohabitate
there are vast
wardrobes of imagination*
...
~
Nov 18, 2022
Nov 18, 2022 at 7:19 AM UTC
Oh! saturday nights spent
wishing for my father to come early
and tell me "I love you"
Sunday nights spent awake
waiting for his return
to drive me to school on monday mornings
How my mother, my little brother and me
curse the day he became best friends with John
Knowing John changed it all
all board games now in the back of our wardrobes
with dust on top of them
waiting to rot
Sometimes, I waste my birthday wishes
pretending they'll work out
wishing for my father
to have never met John
My little brother and me,
now replaced for slot machines,
gambling tables and spliffs
Give me a hint, dad
should I still call you like that? Nah.
Now I've met this "so called John"
and I do not like him
he makes me do funny stuff
His silhouette is bright
and he uses a cane
I don't like him, "dad"
Please stop seeing him
I know you say
he helps you to get through
but does he help us? No!
Maybe one day mom will have the guts
to sign that divorce paper
and hand it to you
I hope she do it soon
The saddes part is, when I asked you to quit John,
you said, No.
"Why?"- I said.
"Because Johnnie is the only one who tells me to keep walking".
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 9:47 PM UTC
Dear diary, can I tell you a story?
I tried last summer
Dear diary, can I add to that story?
I lied last summer.
Dear diary, can I finish that story?
I died last summer.
But to explain that further, let me tell you the whole story;
I lied last summer.
Your mouth spews out insults like a second nature,
polluting the room with your sickly sweetness and over made up frowns,
before we know it over-sized hoodies and baggy t-shirts,
line our wardrobes in a desperate attempt to make us invisible.
Teachers turn a blind eye and old friends start to forget us.
Before we know it, we’re keeping our hands down in class,
first of all because we don’t want to share our opinions,
but more importantly because no-one would even care.
In this 21st century hell,
we can only try and tread carefully around you,
because when we don’t, it’s worse.
When we don’t, we have to bear the sting as reality slaps us in the face leaving us feeling flustered and insane.
And before we know it,
we’ve forgotten what the heat of the sun feels like upon our bare skin,
because we hate the paranoia we feel,
just walking alone where you’re around.
And the rest of them, they just sit there and stare,
as though willing it away half-heartedly in their minds
could cause even a miniscule amount of difference,
while we,
the freaks,
the losers,
the broken records among a pristine collection,
we were all rotting away as you, like a rat, ate hungrily at our collective corpse.
Before we know it,
those bitter, barely customised whispers you send through the hallways
turn into a deafening ringing,
in our heads constantly
And so as the cool summer air blew through my hair,
red hot tear streaks fell like train tracks upon my pale, blotchy cheeks.
Time slipped through my fingers as weeping angels serenaded me,
eyes closed,
heart overdosed… on emotion,
a notion,
distortion
of devotion…
I fell in slow motion.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 6:30 PM UTC
As a kid,
I thought wardrobes
really led people to Narnia
As a tenager,
it became a place
that held all the secrets
of seven minutes in heaven.
Now, it's just another
chaotic part of my life
Memories
yet to be sorted out,
Secrets still hidden deep in
like your shirts.
That leaves me believing
that wardrobe is
just a fancy name
for cemetery,
for memories and secrets.
Apr 15, 2019
Apr 15, 2019 at 10:47 AM UTC
We all have a place
that we keep
(just in case)
our hord
or our stash
our clutter.
Things that had purpose
or by some chance
may be used again.
Oddities and nic nacks
Old candles and keys
obsolete rechargers and batteries
cables and thimbles,
coins of foreign currencies
manuals and letters and lint.
And they are stored
in shoeboxes,
beer crates
bottom drawers
wardrobes,
on garage shelves
or in hearts.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 12:00 PM UTC
*So where does she go when
she's been fingered and drugged,
abused and sexed up?
That's right, the end of the bar
where they'll never find her,
let alone kiss her.*
Tucked behind her right ear,
blonde hair fell as if a tear
from cheek to chin,
bowling ball to bowling pin;
stacked at the other end.
This poem is for you long-blonde-hair-behind-the-bar-girl, written down by paper and pen.
Your quilted jacket,
leather in material,
won't keep the cold out;
only a white-stick-arm
will warm, guide and
ignite you home.
Fill the wardrobes back up again
with hangers plucked and picked from the
carpeted floor.
Lay the lover down amongst the sheets
only the whisper sweet thoughts and memos and
kind words in low tones
into her ear.
Kiss her neck and grace the thigh,
build
up
the
courage
to
last
all
night.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 4:59 PM UTC
When autumn comes
Trees become exhibitionists
Shaking off their clothes
Standing proud in the rain
The increasing cold
Matched by an increasing nakedness
While humans plunder wardrobes
Nature strips itself off
Back to the essence
Of what autumn means
That Fall is the fall
Of the empire of pretense
So I cannot pretend
And clutch on summer’s façade
And hide under the foliage
Of warmth and joy
I must let the rain
Wash away my pretense
And I’ll humbly lay myself bare
Amidst nature’s nakedness
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 5:59 AM UTC
take a swig from the jug
in the dark; watch the flies move
through the bedroom
and congratulate the rest on
throwing out the things they used to wear
jokes on them, our wardrobes
were tattoos, and they aren’t skin deep
recollect a book of stamps
call it your past and burn it
there are far better things to stab with needles
than the arms of patients
being waved in distress
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
Dames dimeless during durations of
duress, unless uniform wardrobes
in cuneiform earlobes eloping in last
gasps of breath, breathed by an opposite
*** on a raft drafted and crafted by
bureaucrats that sat upon rat traps.
The fat cats gasp under last laughs.
They can yap about the fallen all day
and paid based on grades in a vicious
cycle of buy - sell - trade. They caved in
as Persians sigh at the fading world
hurled beneath convuluted swirls of black pearls.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 2:34 PM UTC
In the house I have today
Most everything has a place
Wardrobes incarcerate prior and present
Each with gates for closing
An open seat is kept for comfort
Another for imposing
A shelf I have for string and twine
Another for hope and faithful
Rakes and spades are saved outside
And perseverance on the table
Honesty's stored behind mahogany doors
And sacrifice on the stove
Cleanliness is kept in sight
And dust in neglected alcoves
A place I have for peace and joy
And even one for sorrow
But in all the rooms
Of my house of today
I have not room for tomorrow.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:44 AM UTC
Men,
the loneliest group of species in the universe,
and so Bell invented the telephone,
lonely voices,
flowing through the receiver,
a party is,
the carnival of a group of lonely people,
loneliness exhaled from their mouths,
into the air,
if the air could speak,
it’d say “hey,
my name is loneliness,
so nice to meet you”,
in the broken sky,
lonely kiteline won’t let go of,
the wing,
won’t let it,
seek some comfort,
standing on the top of the world,
overlooking a frigid world,
afraid of being forgotten,
wanting to send everyone a postcard,
time has carved loneliness ,
on the tunnel of life,
loneliness follows the partiers home,
and hides in wardrobes,
and becomes their coats,
and masks.
Nov 16, 2014
Nov 16, 2014 at 2:39 AM UTC
the home
we once lived in
with wardrobes in shambles
and drawers with clutter
is now empty.
i packed everyone's bags,
gathered the last pushpins
from the wall in the kitchen,
and went on with my life.
i made sure to grab
the books we'd hidden in the attic
as well as the photo album
you'd stashed under the floorboards.
i opened the curtains
and then swept the floors.
i made our bed for the last time
and collected the closings
of the dust on the mantelpiece
that nobody ever cleaned.
i got two extra boxes
for all of the medication unfinished.
i marked them "fragile", for they were glass capsules
containing the substance needed to keep my daughter alive.
but her illness didn't **** her.
i was well aware of the dog's bed,
and it found a place
in the passenger seat of my suv.
his quiet whimpers and cries
were all i heard that evening
as i drove away from what once was my life.
when i finally got to my feet again,
i returned to making dinner for myself.
i only knew how to cook for seven,
and i found tranquility in washing things in sevens.
now i made food for one
and washed for one.
i accidentally brewed two coffees this morning,
in hopes you were still here to take it
and laugh at me for making it too strong,
but you're not.
i awoke at noon the day before and sobbed,
for i was used to being awoken by child's laughter
and small bodies climbing into our bed.
tomorrow, i will bring your briefcase to work
and leave it on your desk.
i'll collect it when i go to leave
and frown at the fact you never opened it.
i'll dispatch you three times in the field,
but you won't respond.
i used to see our wedding day,
but now i see your funeral.
i used to see our children's births;
but i've gotten used to their bodies in morgues.
your physical features
become the trauma described during your autopsies,
and our family photos
became the ones used in the funeral program.
the home
we once lived in
with wardrobes in shambles
and drawers with clutter
is now a house;
a house with things
that even i can't pack away.
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
you store olden clothes in rear closets
smaller size doesn't fit
but you're slow to release it
you drip golden particles from under the sleeves
blue scent just soaked in
he couldn't move on
red wine bottles grow dusty
waiting for someone
to slop it all over the floor
I see
three-year race was puzzling
five-star, I still chime you
to slip back in my door
laying eyes on all my sweaters
through lens
you scan breaches in my polished facets
sticked out are
the tiniest strings
busy streets are our checkpoints
same curly haircuts
and same curvy outfits
all facets of yours in a walking men
haven't told you
you booked rent-free place
in my wardrobes
when squeezing your hand
but man, you're stale as bread too
**** you blue smell
from that dressing room
Feb 10, 2021
Feb 10, 2021 at 5:37 PM UTC
there was a little cat and his name was bob
he just love to burgle always on the rob
he would rob the rich and give to those ineed
a very friendly cat a thoughtful cat indeed
climbing up the drainpipes he was very fit
with his torch and sack his little burgle kit
getting in through windows that were left ajar
a proper little thief a litttle burgle star
roaming round the house to see what he could find
that would help the poor he was very kind
looking through the draws and the wardrobes to
searched in every room like the burglers do
then he would get his ***** put it in his sack
wiping off his finger prints not leave his track
then off to help the poor the little cat would go
donating all his ***** gave there hearts a glow
now his deed was done just like robin hood
he had helped the poor just like he said he would.
then he fell asleep tired now was he
happy and content as happy as can be
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 10:06 AM UTC
God of Oprah Winfrey, hear us
let our nails now match our jewels
let thy Self-talk gurus cheer us
raising us above the fools;
plebes who don't esteem their inner
selfish motivational goals,
those who forfeit self as winner
fail to charm our worldling souls.
Dietary mysticism
helps to shed the guilt that pounds
in our temples. This baptism
in thy shallow pool resounds.
Cutting-edge sound-bites now assure
endless wardrobes. Chic pastel.
And we deserve that pedicure;
freed of Heaven, Christ, and Hell.
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 6:47 PM UTC
Your name has a bitter
taste, like cologne. A muggy
sweet scent that deceived me so easily.
I always tried
to spit it out, but the spray
stuck fast
to the roof of my mouth.
Made me heady,
heavy. Sleepy. I started nodding,
going. Wake me up later,
give me a month or two.
Shake me when the sight of the back
of you won't phase me.
Shout when your eyes and your smile don't nauseate me.
Please let me sleep off the feeling
of losing again. Of everything slipping
into the ocean, of my life
crumbling and cracking open like old brick walls and peeling front doors
and old wardrobes.
I thought you could be
that breath of fresh air I needed so badly,
to come rushing in when the bell jar
cracked open.
But you weren't,
you weren't anything special,
you were an Oxfam shop
bottle of cheap perfume.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 1:45 PM UTC
Check out the lights
Lets transcend the heights
Of my own imagination
Past garbled salt water
Part boiling mermaid daughters
Asinine aliens
Magic beings
Mystics and monks
Praying to
Diaphanous demons
A Virile and vain vampire
Dating a sparkling tree spirit
A wretched wizard
Hanging with Witty Warlocks
And Witches in weird wardrobes
A Wicked werewolf
Courting
Alluring angels
Naughty Gnomes
Teasing tiny
Pretty pixies and
Frightened fairies
An Unlucky unicorn
Being chased by
Dangerously daring dark dragon
Greedy goblins grabbing gleaming gold
Goofy Gargoyles
Glad handing
Gorgeous goddesses
And a cranky Kraken
Staring at a sickeningly sultry siren
Sitting on a salty sea stone
Trying to eat an enlightened elf
A leprechaun laughing
At a ***** hobbit
Who is trying to ****
A hairy and hostile dwarf
All stream lined in time
Put on a perfect pause
Cause they don’t do anything
They are just fake figurines
Cardboard cutouts
Pretty poems and portrait
Painting in my mysterious mind
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
he sings about a family photograph
in a language i understand no better
than a mathematical equation
and i grasp the strength and weakness in his voice
and the vibrations they send through my wooden table and all its contents
my eyelids flutter open and shut like a dying moth,
trying to be in sync with the music but unable to
i stretch and fold my legs as i hit the replay button,
crack some knuckles and glance around in double vision
as i'm being slowly oxidized to death
i have pictures of a smiling childhood idol
pasted on the wardrobes,
a series of little pale yellow lights
taped apologetically to the textured, pastel blue wall.
i have writings on my wall in colours i cant find within myself,
and i suddenly pray this poem won't disappear
with the glitches of technology.
i pray to nobody, no god, no spirit.
being the atheist i am, i feel strange closing my eyes,
“please let it be okay” echoing in my head every time.
but these are not my thoughts.
these are not your thoughts.
they simply are.
he continues belting out notes
and i breathe without rhythm.
my lungs are tone deaf.
i get goosebumps on my hairless limbs for a second.
applause resounds, it's a live recording of the song.
short pause, next.
piano picks up pace
and the mellow voice of a different man
of the same tongue fills the room.
a little more lively.
i realize it's not the words you need
to understand what he means.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 4:32 AM UTC