Best Corseted Poems
I swallow smitten smoke
stomach the wake of verve ~
a corseted coherence
craving night’s clemency
while the sun sleeps
lips pressed to the searing chalice
intoxicated by silver essence ~
my fragile fragrance
You name my soul,
an enamored enchantress
the touch that craves not
a thousand thirsty eyes ~
misinterpreting inner magic
confusing compassionate
curves with consent carved
but I am not your temptress
nor am I a mystique
clothed in mists of memories
marooned in manipulation
I never ached to be the allure ~
bound to every burn
wading to savor my secrets
the intriguing incense
intricately kissing the cashmere air
the scent of the soul’s need
O spirit, guarding my light,
seek me as I am ~
an enigma, unfelt,
studying the silhouette
s i m m e r i n g
in crimson and copper
for the mirror
resembles threefold silence
wanting to be the destiny
not the dancing desire
dissolving into the drunken depths
of candle-lit dusk ~
your breathless incantation
a hypnotic haze
hand-woven into thin lace of love…
I am more than
your skies’ beholding ~
I am heaven’s eternal poetry
a pulse
no palm can possess...
Intricately fragile, embracing her curves,
She silently breathes in this womb,
This womb where she is a prey to its wants,
Its black silken webbing costume,
That clenches her neck, runs down her back,
Is tattooed the length of her leg,
Where every small inch of her dark gothic body,
Is covered in this spider’s thread,
She’s at one with this life of widowed disguise,
Eyeliner, fishnets, boots, and nails,
Each covered in this rich exquisite black web,
Becoming her corseted black jail,
And she wakes up at three, the unlit in the dark,
To play and to stalk and to bite,
To walk in the black crisp air of your town,
Our black widow who walks in the night.
The faintness of flight overwhelms me
boxed in caged, corseted, in a cattle car of the air
pristine bells and whistles cajole the herd
as the breath is cycled and recycled through the
bellows of plasticine and metal
germs jumping from orifice to orifice
knees crushing bosoms braced for the portent
the potential
the promise
of the fall.
Faintness elicits only minor response
from the tenders who un-tenderly steer the crowd
small moans garner memories of the mallet falls..
but fail to unseat the kindness
so needed..sought
watery eyes wave
and the floor seems the only safety
and still the settlers stay settled in their complacency..
neither rising to gift an aged woman with their perch
or commenting as she hits the floor
ah the joys of twenty first century flight
in the belly of Virgin America.
like the f l i c k e r s
of light...
I was born later
than witchcraft;
not a voodoo bride,
with thick velvet veil
walking down
with peacock-pearl waves,
in the silhouette
of silver demise ~
like a carnation
claoked with cashmere coffin;
but a corseted flame
of bronze and blood ~
as the moon bites
into the blaze of my heart;
liquifying the lapis blues
and bleeding
the truths of luck,
that flow in the
elysian effervescence
wrapped in sunstruck ashes
and aurelian sonatas ...
I need not the spiced tongue
of tarot chariots ~
neither the vehemence
of fire-dragon oracles ...
because the horoscope
of my heartbeat
shall suffice to sear those stars
starving for sultry eve's
eloquence dipped in
the dire desire to fuel their sparks ...
in this d r e a m ...
of devotion for my deity,
neither dusk nor dawn
can delude me ~
because the essence
of this spirit breathes me
in swarovski gold scars ,
floating and glimmering
through the jasmine elixirs
of my mind,
where I may stretch
across the soul-arcs
with swan elegance ~
rippling with wisps
of chiffon white ,
in the mists
of honey perfume
and porcelain saudades ,
diaphanous in the streaks
of shimmering solace ...
unspoken yet felt ,
beyond kohl rain ruffles ...
and jet jinxed breezes ...
~ O mundane magic ~
blemish me
with bona fide
beams of aura,
balming the brave
with an astral alliance;
and let me bathe my wings
in the ache of aquamarines ...
as, the incensed heat
of your baptized waters
can rinse my cursed rose rings ~
and might make me illuminate
in azure ice calmness ,
with my feet anchored
to the feathery throne of fireflies,
like the p r i e s t e s s
of p a t i e n c e...
warm with weak
~ g l o w i n g w i c k ~
of glossy green glitters ...
The year was 1680 and I was travelling,
I sat in the carriage looking out the window;
The coachman was driving the horses quickly,
As a storm was approaching us from behind.
Thunder was booming and rolled over the forest,
Already raindrops were falling on the glass;
The sky was overcast with dark shifting clouds,
And everything was getting dull and gloomy.
This road was so deserted and remote from civilization,
I must admit that I was afraid.
Suddenly the carriage lurched and was falling over,
It bounced through the foliage, twisting and turning;
And then it stopped and all was quiet and still,
The coachman was dead and the horses also.
Struggling, I managed to climb back up to the road,
My corseted body, full overskirt of pink satin;
And parchment petticoat unsuitable for climbing,
The bun on my head loosened and my hair fell.
Oh dear, it was so dark and misty on the road ahead.
But I started to walk in the inkiness.
The forest around me was pitch black and frightening,
But there, through the trees a light was burning;
The rain was coming down in torrents that blinded me,
As I stumbled forward through the tangled trees.
A wood cabin was hidden in green lush vegetation,
It looked so secluded and isolated and lonely;
But I found myself banging on the door loudly,
As sheets of rain poured on me from up above.
And then the door slowly opened and light spilled out,
And I stood there dripping wet, and . . . .
________________________
August 22, 2015
Poetry/Narrative/Cabin in the Forest
Copyright Protected, ID 15-702-939-0
All Rights Reserved. Written under Pseudonym.
Plump-cheeked and bow-lipped, the stalwart mother sits reading,
corseted in her close-kept role, gathering the feminine
for like to like is drawn, a blossom-pressed, Alice sits lazing.
Straight-laced, as the time, the stripped couch holds her life's calling
falsely framed in pleated revere, smacking of each hidden sin
plump-cheeked and bow-lipped, the stalwart mother sits reading.
Her voice denies the rigid caste of ill thought mothering
a doll's denied its little mother's arms and long lost grin
for like to like is drawn, a blossom-pressed, Alice sits lazing.
All of nature calls to her but Mother seeks quiet's staging
as wilder spirits and untamed flowers wilt beneath her chin.
Plump-cheeked and bow-lipped, the stalwart mother sits reading
There'll be no romp, no rabbit chase, no rash beheading,
just Mother dear and only here within this room again.
Plump-cheeked and bow-lipped, the stalwart mother sits reading
for like to like is drawn, a blossom-pressed, Alice sits lazing.
Painting Alice in Wonderland by George Dunlap Leslie
Corsets My Waist
In my corset I
Feel thin and lean
My waist is constricted
Without any pain
Down to a 22 from
A 26 inch waist
Inch by inch as I
am tightly laced
Around my body it
Is snug and warm
Squeezing firmly like
A silk stalking glove
It Defines the curves,
smoothes out lumps,
Especially if you have
Junk in your trunk
Reshaping my form
And reducing my waist
Creating an illusion of
the perfect barbie frame
I Walk proud and I
Stand tall this corset
I wear Is the cause
of it all
I glow with radiance
And sex appeal
causing not just men
but the girls to stare
So next time you see
A perfect ten stroll bye
you might find yourself
Staring because you are
mesmerized
if this happens don’t
hesitate to tell her she
looks good with a
Corseted waist
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CONTINUED:
Now here you are
with yours tightly laced,
as you stroll by..
you feel the eyes
focus on your waist....
what will they say about about you?
“since thoughts speak in past tenses,
drop mind, rely on senses,
embracing and releasing,
pain pangs and pleasure pleasing” ~ Unseeking Seeker
The sun
w a n e s into the saline swell,
and the ether
undresses corseted ruminations,
while heart follows formless flames
illuminated with flares of
frankincense forgiveness
as mind replays recurring regrets
like vinyls~
spinning forlorn runes
laced with fallacious fragments,
clouding the intricate cycle of lunar~
intuitions with illusive riddles,
drifting into the eventide of agony…
So I drink and I dine
from the hyacinth hands of
the golden chalices
brimming with turmeric tranquility,
listening ~ in sync ~
with the soul of sanguine stillness
ricocheting with rustling repose,
erasing cracked crevices
heavy with ache
from soft smears of monarch-bliss strokes,
spilling picturesque pigments of peace
from Mona Lisa musings
to veil visions of vanity,
to mask mirrors of melancholy,
to soften scarlet streaks of sorrow…
Tonight I close the portals
of perplexed perceptions,
unlocking the crown chakra
like forgotten forests
glowing with faith and fireflies,
allowing stars to glaze
my inner psyche
with dusts of glistening gratitude,
fine-tuning the symphony of Kundalini
to musical mists of mindfulness,
cloaked in
crystalline clovers of clarity~
like an awakened fairy
flipping leaves of lotus love,
pausing the pulse of pain
beneath an empyrean embellished
with spiritual elixirs,
detached from darkness,
clinging neither to
the seraphic scriptures
nor the egoistic galaxies,
sprinkling superficial sparkles
of material mantras.
As enlightened ink r e m a i n s
reliving ~ sewn into the
seams of sacredness
like endless rivers rippling with
opalescent quiescence…
O divine almighty,
I vow to sow herbs of harmony,
engrossed in the timeless phase
of rose-wine twilight~
untangling twisted tulips
intertwined with
weathered willows.
As I seek nothing but lucid light,
soaked in petrichor musings,
resting in zealous zenith,
for I am a rhymeless disciple
accepting the reality
that kissed the silk of silhouette
amidst rain and warmth~
the celestial peaks of change.
I taste flavors of kismet,
swallowing spices of lament,
comfortably composed
in the mystical essence
of soundless rhythm…
Three pedal pushers, pushed past,
mom, daughter, grand
icons of fashions.
Forms formed by the dictates of passion.
Hair cropped, brows plucked,
rural New England’s answer to
Dolly Parton.
Scooped necked and corseted
varying little from teen-queen to matriarch;
only the wrinkles told the tale.
As I wandered about the lush lawn
In the gazing ball I glimpsed
A breath-taking young woman with a touch of innocence
In her soulful, violet eyes.
I was mesmerized by her beauty
And I had to look up to see that this vision was real.
I did so slowly, and found her gazing a bit boldly
Straight into my very soul.
When she was sure she had bewitched me,
She slowly turned and walked down the garden path
Knowing that I would follow, meek as a lamb
Into her lair.
Into a secret garden she led me,
This girl with the violet eyes and beautiful thick hair
Which she started to unpin and let fall,
Cascading down her back like a waterfall of shining waves.
When we reached the center of the garden,
She turned and waited for me
To come close enough to see the rise and fall of
Her beautiful breasts, corseted to their full advantage.
Though they were lovely, it was the eyes that held me.
She ran a light finger along my lips then pressed it to her own.
It was then I noticed the fullness of her mouth, lips slightly parted
And silently beckoning me to join my lips with hers.
And so I did, and the kiss that ensued was
Warm, and sensuous, and became urgent as it continued.
I felt her tongue and tasted her sweet breath and thought
I might faint at the passion that coursed like lightning through my body.
And without notice, it ended, and I opened my eyes
And found myself standing along in the garden
My very body still on fire with the electricity
Of that kiss.
In a daze, I stumbled back toward the party,
And upon seeing my unsteadiness, my host
Invited me into the manor to cool myself
Out of the heat of the sun.
As we walked through the massive doors,
I glanced up, and over the enormous marble mantle
Was a portrait of the girl with the large violet eyes,
And the cascade of dark hair, and the lips I still felt upon my own.
I asked my host shakily, “Who is that”?
He replied with a shudder that she was Anna,
His betrothed, who had been lost on the sea
And had never been recovered.
Years later I wonder, was she ghost or spirit,
Was she there that only I could see?
The passion, the taste of her lips,
Still electrifies my body and soul as I dream of Anna’s French kiss.
Written 8.22.21
Whoever dreamed up 'calories' is no friend of mine
I hold him responsible for my corseted waistline
Without his cruel notions, I'd first slake my thirst
Then I'd explode in a burst of liverwurst
My girls are of my meraki
My little women plump and primped
Bulging curvy corseted crimped
They never fail to catch an eye
Painted pretty multi designed
For each the right beholder to find
Hourglass Figures compared to Buddhas
And Venus de Willendorf's form so potent
But my girls they're feminine flotant
As each is but a sculpted phallus
With gender bending folds beguiling
They do inevitably lend to smiling
17.12.12
Composed for Silent One's
"Meraki"
The redwood forest has been caged,
corseted its skirt hemmed
Who would think there'd come an age
when trees where kept enclosed
And so I cry and so it goes.
as we bid good bye to all of those.
Seeing nature is now all the rage
even stars have dimmed
Dominion over nature's stage
has killed many winged.
And so I cry and so it goes.
as we bid good bye to all of those.
Man has devoured fish, fowl and sage
ravenous and blighted
And so in truth we can't assuage
our hunger once cited.
And so I cry and so it goes.
as we bid good bye to all of those.
The sky where ghostly bird do fly
depth where ghost fish swim
The forest where the trees all die
Man's been the death of them.
*Meant to be a song.
Faint recognition;
ambiance, for hire,
this job is precarious,
but can she steal the show?
Holding the position;
mistress of high wire,
toes point nefarious,
to the sweating mob below.
Concentration mesmerizing;
every eye transfixed,
tickets funded by the dream
on the back of the artiste'.
And beautiful is sighing,
"Let 'em have their kicks-"
she picks up the balance beam,
silencing the beast.
This is holy treason;
lost in deep translation,
corseted travesty,
compelled by safety net.
Furtively she blows a kiss;
to conquer hesitation,
winks, knowing gravity
hasn't eaten yet.
After a long walk
I transcribed myself into piano music.
All night a harpsichord
had been jangling nerves,
rattling the same baroque concerto
over and over again.
I count I-100, then start over
counting and walking,
a clockwork organ
self-winding, always
pushing a moment before it
as if time could be saved
for later use.
The morning is mellowing out.
multiple fugal states row
in and out of salty ponds,
see-through-gulls rest
on opaque waters.
A powder wigged accompanist
pinches snuff
rams it up both nostrils
turns to an invisible audience
bows, sneezes, then farts.
Tight corseted lungs flap loose,
reveal a forgotten voice in a ribcage,
sad songs come out of its catfish mouth,
then laughing monks arrive
to dine on tongue and saffron.
The keyboard is stuck in the middle
of a thought,
a thought so long
that it pants and coughs
trying to keep up with itself.
After a long walk
I lay down in the back row
of a concerto and wave weary hands
at the ceiling
conducting next words
from tissue thin scores
and unfinished endings.