Poems about blouse

№ 912841

Blouse (10w)

I'll tell you
Fingertip secrets

Your blouse.


Author: david badgerow
Date: 12/07/2019

№ 697873


While father comdemns socialism
And mother thinks I am doing fine
I lay awake like the pattern goes
Rewinding my lies
And rubbing the truth out of my memory
Until all I know
Is the need



Author: charlotte
Date: 29/12/2018

№ 558558

Spit up on my favorite blouse

I've been cracking my knuckles since I was six,
But back then my bones were still practically cartilage.

My mother could only make me stop during dinner.
Her brass voice echoed through the house,
Like the trumpets in a marching band on the Fourth of July.
(Although not as patriotic. )

My mother didn't know about all the times I cracked
My knuckles when I was by myself.

Sweet sixteen and the joints between my fingers still
Crunched secretly under my skin and between
What was now developed into hard white bone.

I've only broken one bone in my entire life.

It was my nose during my homecoming soccer game,
Senior year, under the lights and across the street
From the stone-cold brick building that housed
My Catholic education.

Soccer balls have hit my stomach and my chest countless times,
Leaving hexagonal imprints in scratchy blotches of red
Over an empty envelope of acid and oxygen.

This time it hit me and I fell to the cold and frozen dirt,
My jersey conforming to the brown-green of roughened grass
And the blood from my nose providing contrast
And complement all at once.

Someone picked me up and I became conscious and self-conscious
That someone's hands could touch my skin and
That someone's hands could feel my body.

My hands hung off the sides of the stretcher I didn't need
(I thought it was crazy, all this fuss over a broken nose)
And they swung as I was carried, bringing blood
To my knuckles so that they could swell and expand.

My mother tripped over her questions
When she asked if I could
Breathe or eat or speak or if my choking was cause for concern.

ВЂњB-b-baby don't d-d-die,
I m-m-made rice and b-beans.
B-b-baby don't d-d-die,
I m-m-made your f-f-f-f-favorite. ”

You tied me in a robe and stuck a tube down my throat.
B-b-baby don't d-d-die,
It's your f-f-favorite.

blouse,  favorite,  spit.

Author: GC
Date: 25/08/2018

№ 365213


I am made for you, woman
Of substance: finest cut
Sheer in silk to fit my
Chic lady of style.

Short sleeves
Or long:
Smooth me
Press me
Wear me.

In chill and cold
Let me cling
Around your
Curvy contours
Close and tight.

In noon-day heat
Free me
Hanging loose
To cool you.

Drench me in fragrance
Caress my soft collar
Then gently discard me
Plunging me deep
Into soft soapy foam.


blouse,  fantasy.

Author: anthony Brady
Date: 02/03/2018

№ 345843

The Neon Alien Blouse

This terribleness. The blur of traffic lights and puddles paints Los Angeles on my face at night. It's so hard to know who will doze in my blind spots. Sunflower seeds and cocaine lining the carpet. I sat on the front porch for five hours gutting the wolves from my appendices. Usually the headaches go away with the squashing of the lights. Fluorescents are the worst, halogens second, and 60-watt 120-volt light bulb the bane of my existence. I look at my phone but I cannot summon a quirky 120 character quip. I need excedrin but all I have to grape flavored children's aspirin. I should have asked for the water. How many unfinished glasses of water have I left around this world?
Maybe Bruce and I will squash after work. I can hear his weekly catalog of two night stands with those married transient women who drive from Santa B. I hate golf, I could have made carried a career in this resentment. Maybe rolling down the window will alleviate some of this pressure. Maybe it's barometric pressure, The Baby is here in time to drag the houses out to sea. It feels like Michelangelo is carving The David in my head and it's the chiseling I've never wanted. It's Tuesday and the drugs were horrible. They killed five of them today. We wrapped their heads in blankets from the Thrifty, and had to have the interns find clothes that would fit for the Christian caskets. Two days until Giving Thanks Day.
I am wrapped in copper and stuck in amber. I am acquitted by nonsense and stipulation, sick with nausea and pushing my forehead into the steering wheel. This is all terrible. The lying I've never told myself. The people that don't even know it's lying. Her and I always seem to escape with our happiness and pleasure in tow. The odds are slim, but our clothes have never fit too tightly.

alien,  blouse,  neon.

Author: Martin Narrod
Date: 13/02/2018