Best Dressed To Kill Poems
I waited, dressed to kill
in red,
and in love
both, of which
I could have been coaxed out of
You have turned a pale shade of white,
my Valentine
Al Green sang to me,
as my pen danced as your substitute
we danced all night long,
stationary, our dance floor.
As we whirled to the emotions
of words' sounds; hand in hand,
we went round and round
and round
No one else in the room
most of all, not you
as my ink turned
from red to blue
WAR SIREN
On the battlefield, the ruby blood,
is caked to warm dusty brown to dry.
Bedraggled women calls the living,
she, with pleasure, makes a soldier cry.
Lady in red, whore of the regiment,
her life spent, intently but corruptly.
She will subtract the soldier from the war,
and seduce him softly but abruptly.
Eerie soldiers of death seek the war whore,
she turns them inside out and to her will.
The men will knock, knock, knock upon her door;
because not every soldier's dressed to kill.
They have removed their blunt minds to fight,
and advance but cannot kill to win.
This femme fatale, siren of the trench,
aspires to take the war out of men.
By Edlynn Nau
© June 21, 2016
Aching for my presence
she called me late one night.
She wanted to have
a night cap,
and she knows I do it right.
Forty five minutes later,
on the counties outer rim.
I pull into the driveway,
of her old
Victorian.
Striking lightly with my knuckles
on the front door made of oak.
she opens the door,
powder blue negligee
high heels.
My jaw hit the floor.
Caramel surprise,
nude, she's dressed to kill.
Candles glowing throughout the house
relaxing music in the distance.
She drops her robe,
standing there,
testing my resistance.
The curvature of her waistline,
tapering to long,
well toned thighs.
Breasts proportionate to her figure.
Standing six foot tall
is a beauty just my size.
Unable to control my sergeant,
she receives a standing ovation.
Reaching down, she caresses me,
what a wonderful sensation.
I push her onto the mattress,
forcing my way between her thighs.
She twists and turns violently,
whimpering a series
of sultry cries.
Jared Pickett
10/11/09
Asavvy1
Impoverished, destitute no money to spare
This woman with green eyes and cascading hair
On a mission to find something to wear
Impress she must as though she hadn't a care
Green velvet drapes hanging in her foyer
Torn down and fashioned just for her
This woman in green shown like a mare
Femme fatal, Scarlett O'Hara, as no others compare
Dressed to kill as only she dare
In the green dress that she did wear
dreamt to relieve myself
of fearful thoughts, patriotic
plots. dressed to kill in Washington
skirt, no pants of a farmer
wielding a British brown bess
blessed with happiness before
the frightening knock at the door
exploded out of shock
towards the door...towards the door
while family holds their revolutionary breaths
the bouquet
of children unaware
of dangerous situation
a shot in the dark
a shot heard round the world
that never stops
7/16/2020
I just want five minutes, just to pitch
My killer screenplay for a killer film.
The hunt for a serial killer
By glamorous profilers, nothing grubby
Or exploitive. Some partial nudity,
(Only if required). There’ll be a sexy
Enigmatic hero. First a, er, sexy
Sombre saxophone sighs; on a soccer pitch
Lies the first victim. Tasteful nudity
Reveals one poignant nipple. Open eyes film
Over, dead as moon craters, her grubby
Legs disposed like spoons. She was our killer’s
Anonymous mouse. Our glamorous killer’s
Eyes showed her useless terror. Our sexy
Hero runs a slow hand through his grubby
Hair (Cares too much to wash.) Things touch fever pitch
When the next is abducted. We will film
Her wide eyed writhings. Classy nudity
Perhaps. Some brief tenderness; nudity
Of course; our hero and his wife. (While killer
Stalks a frail, thinly sketched female. We film
From his point of view her private sexy
Underwear clad body.) I want this pitch
To emphasize our Fincheresque grubby
Vision is totally unique. Grubby
Walls connote moral decay. Nudity
Is not exploitive. Our hero pitches
An unorthodox solution. The killer
Is secretly his cross-dressing sexy
Partner. Twisty eh? Never seen on film.
Dressed to Kill? No. Nobody’s heard of that film!
(Who remembers the 80s?) In a grubby
Climax, the mousy cross-dressing, sexy
Basement stalks saxophone solos. Nudity
Washes its private underthings. Killer
Underwear is arrested. That’s the pitch!
Contains grubby scenes of sexy violence.
Contains killer nudity and mild scenes of extreme peril.
Contains high pitched screams and discarded spoons.
Way back in the nineteen fifties
When Charlie grew out of his toys,
He fancied having an active life
So he joined the Teddy Boys.
He wore drainpipe jeans, a black drape coat
And a shirt with a boot lace tie.
With his crepe-soled shoes and slicked back hair
He definitely caught your eye.
It wasn’t unusual to find him
With a flick-knife in his hand, though
This wasn’t quite what he wanted but
He pretended to make a stand.
Young Charlie was more of a lover
With a record of amorous feats,
And rather than hurting people,
He preferred slashing cinema seats.
So when he began seeing Doreen
Spending Friday night on the town,
He took her to the local flea-pit
Where they cheered when the film broke down.
Now Doreen had plans to catch Charlie,
Dressed to kill she just couldn’t fail,
With stiletto heels and flouncy skirts
And her hair in a pony-tail.
Poor Charlie just couldn’t resist her
And finally asked her to wed.
He bought a stylish suit and proper shoes,
He’d grown out of being a Ted.
In marital bliss some time later
He thought of the freedom he’d had,
With his Teddy Boy suit now in mothballs
He felt that life wasn’t too bad.
With Doreen he’d found some contentment
But thoughts whirled around in his brain,
Growing up had left some resentment
And he wished he could be young again.
Characters in action
Talents in multiplication
Shapes and sizes of many version
Skills on display with tension
Over the top ropes one would gape
Under the ropes one can escape
Apron of thick mattress
Arena of countless matches
Highlighted are dressed to kill
Fronting the crowd that fill
Seats of spectators that cheer
Feats of competitors, not jeer
Matches roll with blunder
Rumbling and grappling like thunder
Crutches and splints spread over
Bodies of the bruised fall over
Grueling matches live on
Under any pressure show must go on
It's not "business as usual" that linger
Players of theatrics in danger
Venues are slated by dates
Participants stipulated as mates
Previews of expected bouts
Reviews that excite and shouts
Year after year is the Rumble
Inside the ring that crumble
Event that sounds so noble
Fame, not fortune that bubble
A prelude to Wrestlemania
An interlude of regalia
A shot coveted in spotlight
A spot asserted with delight
Let's get ready to rumble!...
He was a serial lover.
Like no other.
His words flowed like smooth swoon song.
Led you away, took you along.
Feelings spun, you lost control.
Dressed to kill, he knew his role.
Wandering across the night,
He moved and prowled without fright.
Youth’s passing moonwalk phase,
Did no end make his craze.
He was a little man,
Not by girth but wisdom’s span.
With his belly full of oats and fire,
He chased the flames of love’s desire.
His music touched most every heart,
Even those not prone to start,
Sweaty hot lightening trysts,
Whose sorry dawn would end in mists.
In the morning folly was blamed,
On fire even the shrewd are tamed.
Shaking off the heat of lust,
His women did what women must:
Left and right they looked in vain,
Only finding a superlative stain.
The tiger was gone, off and far,
A winking door left ajar.
Evening’s delicate victuals taken,
Most satisfied and now awaken,
He conjured yet another plan,
Oh this beast, this brute, this little man!
Seasons passed, years went by,
His naughty charms refused to die.
With a skip and bounce,
His paws did announce,
“I got you, got you my little prey,
Stay and play just today”
Reckoning’s day came pretty slow,
His magic began to lose its glow.
The girly ladies who made his fame,
Conspired all to stop the shame,
Seated by a blazing fire,
Chants were sung to stop the liar.
Spirits conjured to slow him down,
A watchman posted in every town,
His limbs by spells began to shrink,
Especially one that could not think,
Of a life devout lived in chaste,
Or the fire gone beneath his waist.
With speed did rumors make it known,
Just to leave the fox alone,
On every door a note was posted,
Never again was the tiger hosted.
Nights now spent in aimless drift,
Every move evoked short shrift.
Alone he wandered, alone he sailed,
All his pleas always failed.
Eons it took for reality to dawn:
His presence hardly nary’d a yawn
By the babes once at his feet,
They now stood grinning at his defeat!
How his heart bled in memory’s lane,
For the lovely birds his ways had slain!
Thinking of all the dames,
He failed to remember their cuddly names.
He once was a serial lover,
With a story like no other.
The world is filled with babies
And the parents who adore ‘em,
Though unrelated bystanders
Most often will ignore ‘em.
For many aren’t near as cute
As relatives believe.
The filter that’s tied up with love
Is easy to deceive.
Some infants wear the faces
They’ll parade in when they’re old
And others, even dressed to kill,
Are homely to behold.
Since I became a nana
It’s just natural to compare.
I assure you, though, my grandkids
Outshine everyone out there!
FIRST DATE
oh wow!
she’s prettier than i thought
dressed to kill
i suddenly look like a tramp
smell like one too
not sure
whether or not to hold hands
neither is she
but at last it’s done
a wet clammy experience
troubled
about the good night kiss
my first date
oh hell take a shot
they say eskimos do it that way too
saying goodnight
this urgent call to nature
wouldn’t you know it
sphinx like the whole date
she suddenly wants to talk
Dave Austin
THE COFFEE SHOP
BY EZAR AND STEPHANIE
The Coffee Shop (Male)
It was a warm summer afternoon; As the sun covered the sidewalk like they were bride and groom.
On my way to the coffee shop, a place where I often stop… In the downtown city blocks.
Wearing cream designer shirt, shoes, slacks, and socks; I saw walking towards me a lady with beauty on lock; Designer dressed from bottom to top.
Louis Vuitton heels, the color of scorching hot; Thinking to myself, she deserve props. Not realizing that we were both headed to coffee shop, a place where I often stopped.
Like a gentleman, I open the door to let her in Prada is what I smelled in the wind.
Oh my, she had thick legs and thick thighs Brown skin with light brown eyes.
Headed to the Bristo with a laptop by her side…
She ordered a caramel latte. What do I do to break the ice and conversate?
At the coffee shop a place where I often stopped.
Written by Ezar Williams
The Coffee Shop (Female)
Work heavy on my mind; Mid day, need to break away and unwind
The weather is warm to my skin; The air is breezy and fresh as I take it all in…On my way to the coffee shop where I often stop.
Laptop in one hand, purse in the other; As I walked towards the door, I noticed a “Brotha”?
Tall, dark, and handsome would not be original; This Brotha has stance, confidence of someone spiritual.
He opened the door, as a gentleman should; I walked by, nodded politely, but in my mind he stood.
His eyes spoke, and his smile remained still; Designer dressed, shoes, matching hat, dressed to kill.
I headed to the counter to order my favorite drink as if I wasn’t fazed; By his inviting stature or silent praise.
“Caramel Latte” I request, “I’ll be at my usual table” I directed.
Something was different at the coffee shop, a place where I often stopped.
Written by Stephanie Jones
Life is fast sometimes slow on path marked for chains with a soul with nothing to gain.the pain hurts and it burns deep.Trying to find my path on the streets.in this life filled with up's and downs trying to find gold in this forsaken town
If my family new the things I due they would probably turn there back on me.Its too late for crying now.Its time to turn this smile to a frown.And make a way for me to live now.
The get down is real.The game is fast.No slowing down.Its time to turn this city up side down.
No mercy no disrespect no clowns and definitely no sintchs no broken rules.hold your head up high and get ready to go on a dangerous ride.all gas no breaks control my fate.Im a animal it's time to sit at the table and make my plate killed are be killed are get ate.
Where the concert jungle test your fate.what a life perading around with a knife and a gun.dressed to kill just for fun
In Black with a hoodie on looking for someone I can come up on quick cash rules the streets thugs and thievs.Hoodlums and crips push a hard line trying to devour the empire before my life exspires.
Dark streets filled with love and hate.what a place for me to stay.locked in a maze with no openings.lost souls bound for hell In every way.
My spirt slips away farther from God everyday.A sinner I am but I'm A child Of God.Trying to beat the odds so I'm on my nees now asking God to forgive me for my sins.A mortel man asking God to hold my hand so I can a blessed man...
Active Minds
Freeman Bolden
JUST SOULS
I use to walk down the Cafe Street.
The place of my reminiscence is in the South.
The jooking was heard throughout this section of town.
Leland, Mississippi is so quiet now.
Walking through Uptown finds peace from the noise that made the City sparkle...
The wigs were beautiful that women wore.
The men in their Stacy Adams shined on the dance floor.
An A-line dress or maxi maybe a miniskirt you would wear.
You were dressed to kill.
Turn your man's head with jealousy.
He would shout and tell you that you are with him.
You were as jealous when you lost his attention.
An argument may start if he was not so careful.
However, you would make-up because he would defeat the purpose.
This is your long-term relationship - nothing more in it!
You bleached your hair and put aside your wig.
Striking features, this gave.
He had matured as well.
You are now a couple for fifteen years.
Not married just don't see a reason to do that.
You laugh and say if people talk who gives a damn!
Our love stands the test of time.
The ending is not told, just souls.
Distressed by Rob Barratt
My furniture is all distressed
It's unusually unstable
The oak bookcase is quite depressed
As is the coffee table
The worktop has a thin veneer
It seethes beneath the surface
The taps know how low they can… sink
And think life has no purpose
The painted window frame's been stripped...
Of dignity. It's lacquered
The blue front door's morale has dipped
The cheese board is cream-crackered
The writing bureau doesn't give a jot
The cupboard suffers mockery
It hates the plates and has no mates
It misuses jugs...and crockery
The kitchen table's past is stained
The dishwasher has worries
Last week it broke down and explained
That it was missing Curry's
The settle never settles
And the new desk is neurotic
The chaise longue is invariably wrong
The sofa is psychotic
The fey pouffé is apt to weep
It's covered in wet tissues
The rocking chair, it never sleeps
The magazine rack has Big Issues
The bed’s always horizontal
The tallboy’s a cross dresser
The umbrella stand is second hand
And feels its worth is lesser
The mirror which reflects, neglects
The fine wine rack which whines
The shelves themselves lack shelf-respect
The dining table pines
The mantelpiece has no mental peace
It's fired up with wrath
The woodburner has lost its spark
The wardrobe is a goth
The exposed beams aren’t what they seem
The ceiling's always plastered
The landing has a manic stair
It's an evil little bastard
The piano's case isn't black and white
The floorboards feel downtrodden
The dressing table's dressed to kill
The mini-bar is sodden
The Ottoman is not a man
But it's no couch potato
The teak footstool's a crazy fool
Who quotes in Greek from Plato
Yes, my furniture is all distressed
But they've reason for concern
Oh... I must get it off my chest
...Tomorrow they will burn!!
(sing to The Beatles' "Norwegian Wood)
I once had the best
Furniture but
It got distressed
So I lit a fire isn't it good?
Norwegian Wood.