"zipper" poems
Red wine bubbling in the back of your throat
Rewind the kindling of a fire you won't put it out
Oceans unchanging, swallowing whole boats
You and I left in the void, to drown
I am unfeeling and fleetingly alive
I am lonely and slowly finding peace of mind
You are salt spilled across table tops
You are a child tearing apart and lost.
Dirt on your knees and scabs on your skin
We live free with the pleasures of sin
You taste him on your tongue,
Songs we left unsung.
Your old jacket, the one you gave me,
Well the zipper broke last week.
And the sleeves are torn apart,
It's grown too tight, it don't fit how it did in the start
Metaphors for a broken heart
How the ocean rages and pulls us apart
Smiles for the tattered soul
How the angels play their role.
May 14, 2014
May 14, 2014 at 11:45 PM UTC
I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.
for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?
the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.
no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.
so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.
hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.
instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son
I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.
May 4, 2015
May 4, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
HIGH TOP SHOES...
Back in my day, children wore high top shoes.
Girls white, boys brown.
Because they gave you ankle support.
MOM SAID....
What would mom say now?
High tops are back.
But not for kids
there can't be any ankle support
For they have 7" heels
Some with a zipper up the back
And cut out pointed toes
With silver sparkles
WHAT?
What a difference 70 years makes
Now we should be back into high tops
Girls white, boys brown
Because they give you ankle support...
GRANDMA SAID....
By judy
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
Like rippling water distorts a reflection,
the mirror reshapes my
stomach,
thighs,
arms.
Buttons unlatch from their holsters,
The zipper loosens its grip,
Exposed are the things I despise.
Pinching, pulling, pushing.
Nothing changes, all still there.
Not so much a distorted body,
More so a distorted mind.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 10:58 PM UTC
velcro wallet
was navy, i think
gray plastic zipper
grandma gave you
i had a locket
it had your picture inside
but you threw it away
because you looked like a rabbit
apparently
hair fluffed, eyes puffy
two teeth and two hours
of squirming on a photo booth
plastic coin pouch
small crayola blue
walmart sticker on a side
but it never made me smile
not like that piggy bank did
yard sale treasure
dinosaur-shaped
no smashing to withdrawl
our tooth fairy dollars and dust
still, you crammed stink bugs
down the long neck's back
now, a denim bag on my bed
rhinestoned one in the closet
and your wallet is
real leather, i think
has superheroes on it
rough and grungy
as the comic books in the attic
or, did you toss those too?
who needs a screwdriver
without a *****
that's all money was
just hardware we didn't have
much use for
but there is more than one way
to use a tool
so here, i'll paint it straighter
who needs a coffin without a corpse?
especially when we were
so full of life back then
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 9:13 PM UTC
I was treated like the VIP,
A cat and a big fish,
A hook and a big Six,
whilst visiting madam bow-peeps
rotisserie of *****
Always receptive,
Wearing open silk
working 9 to 5am.
With a little overtime,
hot funk never satisfies,
She had the way-with-all
to feign, delight; even interest,
before negotiating the price,
Two shekels,
She was classy,
kind of slick,
she tickled my ears
for nothing more than kindness,
a small token in exchange for a smile.
She popped on a tune,
as she took off her dress.
The petting started
her two hands tugging with the zipper of my jeans.
A woman's touch... Ha HA,
the rich sultry kiss of *****
tight and tasty;
***** like a ripe tomato,
Sugar fried and drunk.
She opened her legs,
her hair smelled like shampoo,
She was on her belly,
knees tucked up
as I took in the fruit,
deep holes filled with **** and shabby fingers,
hollow spit and angry poison,
head spinning to the groove,
loud and high,
The bed squeaked
and a single light bulb dangled
like a loose tooth,
Ten minutes and
two ******* love songs!
Sick and spent up,
I got dressed to leave,
I said with a poke,
"I couldn't get laid,
Not even in a ***** house!"
And now I'm back in the cold again,
only dirtier.
Oct 10, 2018
Oct 10, 2018 at 4:50 PM UTC
I could have gone to the cemetery,
or back to my high school lab,
find him lecturing from a podium,
bony finger raised,
demagogue of the dead.
I could break him down piece by piece,
cram him in a duffle,
a femur jutting the zipper.
Ignore the groan-
Skeletons are
by nature
never satisfied.
Instead I found myself
in the carnival lot,
The dog was long dead,
the sign kept guard.
Rusty rides slouched like tumbleweeds.
Cotton candy in memory-
blue tack crunching my teeth.
Lewd.
Skeletons fixed on poles,
spiked up through pelvis and spine.
Use ****
Grip shoulders. twist. lift.
When one slid free,
he collapsed into my arms
all bone-light, lovely,
mine at last.
I just brought him home.
Sat at the kitchen table.
Named him Curly.
Zoom howled: WAG’s gone weird!
What’s his name? What’s his name?
His name is Curly,
I said, but I knew
his name was You.
We drink wine by the pool.
He never sips.
Sometimes I pour a second glass for the glint.
Sometimes he tells me Danny Elfman
wants to play his ribs like a xylophone.
Sometimes he sighs,
he hates Oingo Boingo.
I laugh. Obliging.
So do I.
When the wind kicks up
he smells of sugar and rust.
Sometimes he rattles the glassware.
Sometimes he won’t sit still.
Skeletons are
by nature
never satisfied.
Sep 25, 2025
Sep 25, 2025 at 12:11 PM UTC
*** *** *** ba-dum da-dum]
The Cuck walked up to the cocktail stand
and he said to the man running the stand...
"HEY!" *** *** *** "Got any *****
The man said "Go away you filthy perv."
"Cocktails is all I've ever served!"
"Why don't you take a hike?"
The Cuck said "Go ***** a ****
The he strutted away! [struttin' struttin']
He gotta get paid! [by the hour]
Gotta go to work! [at Trump Tower]
... 'Til the very next day.
*** *** *** *** *** ba-dum da-dum]
The Cuck walked up to the cocktail stand
and he slapped his **** onto the stand...
"HEY!" *** *** *** "Got any *******
The man balled his fists and said...
"Why don't you go get a pocket toy and ***** that you filthy pervert who can't get laid so he comes and bothers the cocktail man because he has no game!
How about you go to another bar and stop acting LAME!"
The Cuck said "Your sister wasn't lame."
Then he zipped up his pants [waddle waddle]
as he strutted away [got the zipper stuck]
but that's all okay [showing off the package]
Till the very next day.
*** *** *** *** *** ba-dum da-dum]
The Cuck walked up to the cocktail stand
and he said to the man running the stand...
"HEY!" *** *** *** "Got any ******
The man got ****** then he started to smile.
"Come on, fellow! I bet you haven't had ***** in a while."
Then they strutted away [my **** itches]
but that's okay [they don't care they're *******
watch out for snitches [shut yo **** mouth]
'Till they arrived at the trap house
*** *** *** *** *** ba-dum da-dum]
"Here you go sir, she'll make your **** stir
She's even got a sister you can **** next to her!"
The Cuck's mind began to go....
"How about.... no!"
"But I like this place...
It makes my heart race...
and it would bring me joy....
it would make my day...
do you think we could...
do you THINK we could...
double team your wife so you don't have to pay?!"
Then he scrambled away! [zipping up his pants]
The man was angry in a trance! [hope he tied his shoes]
He even left the ***** [why'd you do that]
Instead he ******* the Cat.
*** *** *** *** *** ba-dum da-dum]
Jan 4, 2017
Jan 4, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC
On our first date,
I took her to a romantic place,
We kissed and she smirked.
Every time she looked at me,
she giggled,
When she left I realized my zipper was open.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 8:31 AM UTC
eye sometimes go to bed wearing an old hoody. It has a metal zipper to close the front and the zipper is always cold, unpleasantly so, on my bare skin. After awhile though, my body temperature warms the metal just enough, that it is no longer a cause of discomfort though the metal still remains inherently cool to the touch
While science can easily explain this I guess, I felt this to be a major miracle. That flesh pliable and heart-heated to 98 degrees could conquer the molecules of metal that were made in China struck me as extra ordinary (always two words, please!) and nothing short of a personal intervention by a personal deity
When I put the hoodie on at first I would think
******* (that's cold)
When I awoke, cosy and warm, I would think
******* (that's so cool)
having studied philosophy in Cleveland,
I knew that the logic of the situation,
what I had experienced was not an
interregnum, but the invisible intervening handiwork of god, who, also knocked my glasses from the nightable to the floor,
just cause she/ he was in a bad mood, on account of having to come such a long way, just,
to reheat me
one more time.
Apr 4, 2015
Apr 4, 2015 at 9:38 AM UTC
My friend and I talk about it
Neighborhood got decimated this year
One after another the corners of community are gone
We touch the elder memories
as one might touch a head in blessing
as loved ones pass
We linger longest over John
Found dead after ten hot days
by other-worldly hazmat crew
flanked by cruisers
with their special, yellow truck
and zipper bags
...found 'im
glasses folded neatly on the night stand
in his jammies
all tucked into bed
No one thought it strange
that strange young guy would die
already decomposing in his head
Lost
among his personal effects
his fleet of rusting cars
and half-assed projects
Deck tacked to garage
his herds of “pets”
Easy to pretend he wasn't really there
between jail stints or some imagined threat or theft
of crap
haunted by the shadows of his persecutors
caught in motion lights
and cameras' blinding evidence of
jungle-jumble and malfunctioning alarms
going off in the wind
Everyone's out to get his stuff
We could dismiss him--
mostly
sorta
...except for times
he mowed his grass at night
or hand-built “the lunatic tower”
just for mom
from scavenged scraps and
hammered hours
power-sawed
through the housing codes
and horror
of the neighbors...
...Such a special spectacle...
******* crazy-- John!
He was enough for one day at a time
like when
he flung that threatening bolder
on bilco doors
for percussive effect
"Get off my fuckin' property!”
(not using his “inside voice")
“Next time, that'll be your head!!
He announces his intent
to not get mad, behave himself
to call the cops on me instead
Fake-dialing
While his mother screams in dread
“John is off his meds!”
My phone is set to speed dial
911
____
“How did we miss this?
How did we not miss him those quiet days?”
How we miss him now
How quiet
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 4:18 PM UTC
I miss my cargo green canvas backpack
Shredded with the mass of three
science textbooks: biology,
classical history, chemistry.
Not like backpack was meant for
several colossal three hundred page
hardcover books.
When it was empty,
it was light,
barely anything, tugging
on my shoulders;
but I insisted the friend come with me.
But I used backpack
for study,
drudgery,
play.
The linen wore
with every use.
It was my safety blanket,
under loose cloth
that contained
sacarine
orange glucose
tablets that I hoped
to never need
Inside the main large pocket,
there was a secret
zipper, within held
a pack of cigarettes,
an excuse,
to pardon myself into a realm of aloneness-
with little questions asked
There were strings that adjusted
its position on my back that
I would pull down,
using tension to fling myself
terminal to terminal
More than fifteen times, I lost
count, of my partner traversing
across oceans, gently cradling my laptop and phone-
my trusted links
with the outside world
Nervousness alleviated by the tassels
in my mouth, I bite and chew
on the cloth, but it holds steadfast
as I ponder how to approach
what's next,
the bittersweet coffee they fell into
rehydrates with my salivating mouth,
hungry for adventure
but a stomach empty
knots itself
anxious
for what's to come
My backpack weighs
on my shoulders, empty or full,
but it's trained my body
to carry the load thoughts in my
head bring upon me
But it yielded to what was to come,
the seams at the bottom gave out.
Backpack let me know: I needed to
learn to carry on
without reliance.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
Admiration is a word that comes to mind when I think about her work.
The seamstress only has to imagine and she can create a masterpiece of herself.
With every thread, button, and hem she tells a story.
She represents herself with every outfit. Her work molds to her every curve and bump.
She can move effortlessly and not worry about a tair
or loose string.
She can create herself into exactly who she wants to be.
And then there is me.
Who has to fight every zipper,
glare at every neckline,
and gripe at worn out areas that have rubbed and tugged to try and fit
my untamed figure.
The clothes that disguise me only entangle me
in a world of self hate and disappointment.
The number or letter on the tag become scars tattooed in my brain of three words:
not
skinny
enough.
I remember when a boy in line during the 4th grade called me fat ***
I remember when I was taken by my mother to a store that "might have things that fit better."
I remember looking at pictures of myself next to my friends and instantly comparing every inch of myself to theirs.
I remember when I looked at myself and thought, "maybe if you lost 20lbs. you would be attractive."
When the Seamstress looks in the mirror she sees a canvas.
A challenge.
A body that will fit herself.
When I look in the mirror I see a girl fighting to fit in her body.
I see those memories of hiding behind baggy sweaters.
I see countless dressing room breakdowns.
The seamstress must have harsh eyes.
She must have her own burden.
Her clothes may be her own, but is it all a disguise to hide herself too?
Aug 21, 2015
Aug 21, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
You are smooth against my skin.
Your surface is cool and inviting
As it wraps around my torso-
Like a protective blanket
You are my security,
Blue pleather bomber jacket.
I pick at your skin and it falls apart.
The zipper, like your bottom teeth,
Are crooked and misaligned.
You shrug over my shoulders,
But leave my chest defenseless.
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
I bet you cost a fortune.
Almost as much as your nonprescription glasses,
Though you break just the same
Like the promises you keep making.
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
You never kept me warm
Just less affected by the
cutting winds of your back lash.
But when I fall asleep at night
I sleep beside the indent of your absence.
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
You are just now brand new,
Though your skin is already worn through
And your lining thinning by the second.
I trusted you,
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
To protect me from the cold.
Though you slump lazily
Over others' shoulders,
Not really caring I've been waiting
With my shoulders bare and frigid.
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
I thought you were one of kind.
But I see your manufactured gaze
Walking down the street,
Sitting across from me on the bus.
Go on, blue pleather bomber jacket,
Temporarily dangling over person after person.
Soon I will see you dangling
On the rotting hanger in a thrift shop,
Years from now looking preserved in your waning beauty.
Blue pleather bomber jacket,
Your trend is dying and your color fading.
I have been snagged by your imperfections for the last time.
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 11:24 AM UTC
We come from the same gene pool,
but don't you dare tell me
that we can wear the same jeans,
because you couldn't hold them up.
You wouldn't be able to keep them in place,
to hoist up the weight of the world
that makes them so heavy.
Your size zero waist and thighs
couldn't handle the pressure,
couldn't handle the qualities
of life size pants.
Not 12 size pants.
Life size pants.
My whole life fits into the stretched out fabric,
the too tight button,
the zipper that struggles to crawl up its track.
These pants have seen days where I could slide in
and days where the squeeze was so tight
that I just gave up,
even when giving up shouldn't have been an option.
Holes have been torn,
rips have been stretched,
and yours have been fashioned to look that way.
Do not pretend that we could switch jeans
and be perfectly fine,
because you would be swimming,
and I would be missing.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
Miss na miss na kita
Ang aking minamahal
Nang parang ito'y sugat
Basag na salamin sa sa aking paa
Nang nawawala ka
Ay dinulot ng tuwa
Kalungkutan, mabigat na bulsa
At notebook na puno ng tula at minsan pera
Noon ubos ang pera sa aking bulsa
Piso, rosaryo, medalyo at picture mo
Ngunit ngayon ay idinulot mo ang sakit sa bewang
Parang may UTI o palo ang iyong dala
Bulsa, pantalon at zipper
Kinalimutan mo na ba?
Kung gaano katagal na tayo magkasama?
O minamahal ano pa ba?
Mamatay lang ako huwag lang mahulog ang aking pantalon
Buhat ang labing limang taon ng pagsasama
Sinturon, nasaan ka na?
(DEDICATED SA AKING ITIM NA SINTURON)
MAY YOU REST IN PEACE KAHIT SAAN KA MAN
Dec 17, 2014
Dec 17, 2014 at 2:13 AM UTC
As we sat on your couch
Early in the morning
Sun shining through the windows
Cold air creeping in
My head started to spin
You set your alarm
Hockey was waiting
Your favorite thing
I kept you next to me
For just a little bit longer
But you eventually walked downstairs
And left me to sleep
As tired as I was
I could not sleep
Your voice echoing through the silent house
My mind and heart racing
Wanting to be with you
I gave in to your call
Tucked myself behind your legs
Watched you watch your lifelong dream
I didn't expect anything
Except to be ignored
Or meerly unnoticed
For I was just a girl in your house
Not a hero on ice
You wrapped your fingers around mine
I felt your stare
Your lips pressed to my head
How did I deserve
To steal your attention?
Counting down the seconds on the screen
Time before I need to go
1:06, 1:05, 1:04
Is this what life with you is like?
What it would be if it were just us two?
0:31, 0:30, 0:29
I could stay here all day
Like you asked me to do
0:02, 0:01, 0:00
For the next few minutes
All you want is me
I tell you I need to leave
Right now? you ask
Right now. I say
You tell me I should stay
The stairs creak under my feet
The zipper on my boots resist
My fingers and the buttons fight
You stand for me
As I walk down the stairs
Morning-after royalty in the castle of her prince
Will you bow as I remove my crown?
You have never kissed me
As hard as you did
In that moment before I left
It felt as though
You were trying to shoot your soul
Through my lips instead of
Forcing your body around my tongue
So that I could only say your name
Goodbye, my seven hour valentine
The only one I've ever had
You asked at two in the morning
On February 15th
But I like to think it still counts
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
Corduroy
by far
is the sexiest fabric
Zipper wisp you thighs a bit faster
You cat-call of body language
I wanna hear you coming
You are not a denim ******
Not cotton soft
My hands are rough
Let me feel your texture
Of parallel lines that go all the way up
Let me lose your button
You can find it later
Keep your innocence like that bear
In that children’s book you might read
To your own kids someday
Corduroy is ugly
So are we
Has texture
So do we
Is made from finely twisted fibers
Like DNA
Corduroy makes me sweat
Literally
And figuratively
If
We were trapped under a blanket of it
And could not tell the difference between
Scar tissue and fabric
Hair and fabric
I will have to bite you to notice the difference
Unless you holler like corduroy
A sound you could beat me with
Then we would just be a transcendental blanket
Of
This should be burned later
So
When I tell you
I think you’re **** like corduroy
It’s a compliment
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 4:03 PM UTC
Morning twilight. Monochrome.
I see the old Moon, waning, a crescent of white silk.
Venus and Spica share a moment nearby
As the Sun edges the horizon.
In my bag, I feel the breeze gently stir past the open zipper at my shoulder.
Sunrise creeps in.
Clouds mottled and streaked.
Red. Orange. A pillar.
Iron incandescence. Vibrant.
Earth awakens with whispers.
Trees reach and touch with each finger of wind plucking the branches.
Songbirds start. Dogs caution.
First beams break the horizon.
Sixteen geese wing past with down swaddled in the early light.
I rise to give my wife words to see this beauty.
Nov 11, 2012
Nov 11, 2012 at 12:04 PM UTC
Temptation is being tempted to spend your last dollar
on a package of M&M;’s in the vending machine in the teachers lounge.
Temptation is being tempted to go through the McDonald’s drive through
even when you know the consequences.
Temptation is when you are tempted to take one of the free cookies at Hannaford
even though you are over the age of 12.
Temptation is everywhere,
everyday.
Sometimes it’s simple,
sometimes it’s more complex.
Temptation is being tempted every time you see your crush in the hall,
to get a burst of confidence and just walk up and kiss them.
It’s being tempted to ride the Zipper at the fair for the first time
even thought you are afraid of heights.
It’s the “want” to see your presents that have been hidden in the closet
even though you are supposed to wait until Christmas morning.
It’s the “need” to buy those jeans that fit you perfectly
even though they cost more than your phone bill.
You can’t ignore it, though sometimes you can control it
but only if you want to.
Feb 14, 2013
Feb 14, 2013 at 9:49 AM UTC
the older generation
thinks we're all meth-heads,
ritalin-riddled serial killers,
serious ingesters
of buckets-of-blood thrillers,
they look at me funny
when I sag my pants
look at me funny
when I've got my girl in my arms
and her hands on my zipper
moving slowly
to the biggest dipper, too loud,
they say,
too loud,
too much cursing,
too much blood and gore,
too many games about getting money
and running over grannies to get more;
Ren and Stimpy,
and
Bert and Ernie,
two homos
that need to burn
for their sin,
the world is going
to hell in a handbasket.
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 7:40 PM UTC
RNA or DNA polymerase, an enzyme, protein, attracted to
promoter molecules in the polypeptide chain causing a zipper
motion and transcription of the code, a duplication of codons,
introns and exons, and so it goes, sharing and unsharing electrons.
These attractions and repulsions, coming near and going far
in nanounits or light years, fail to explain things permanently
but make possible the technology to live long and well, with
personality.
It is a form of governance, the governance of elements, elements are
now
apparently our gods. Learn all you can about their laws, their names,
their needs, read their poems. Only the mentally unusually sound
would,
given this knowledge, agree to the process of mitosis and fertilization.
However,
organisms go round then senseless via involuntary respiration.
Therefore, Pilot Oh Pilot Me.
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 10:56 AM UTC
there once was a woman named ferrin
who got sick of the skin she was wearin'.
so she tugged on the zipper
and let the world rip 'er
in half so she'd finally stop carin'!
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC