Long Brassiere Poems
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Mandy, am I right in thinking you wear a brassiere.
We just call them bra’s, Paul, cuts out the middleman, and as you can see, yes.
Right, is there any chance I could borrow one of your bra’s.
Most guys go for the knickers, why do you want a bra.
I want to put something in it.
That is gross, no wonder Jenny dumped you.
She didn’t dump me for that.
So what is it then, are you obsessed with my breasts.
No, I’m not obsessed with your breasts.
Why not, what’s wrong with them.
Nothing's wrong with them, they’re great.
That is so inappropriate for senior management, I’ve got a good mind to report you.
I want to put a device in your bra, and if the response is what I know it will be, I’ll offer you fifty percent in my new company.
That sounds intriguing, Paul, so what do I have to do.
Just give me one of your bra’s, I’ll put the device in it, you go home and put it on. They’re three settings on it, so start at one and see how you get on.
Should I include Joe in this experiment.
Well, the more feedback, the better.
Next day. So, what’s the feedback.
I put Joe in hospital, that’s the feedback.
What, what the hell did you do.
I put it on setting one, and after a few minutes I felt this tingling sensation, and that just put me in the mood. Then I got Joe into bed and turned it onto setting two. My god, I was demanding sex in every position conceivable, it was fantastic like out of this world, so then I went to position three as I was straddling him on the kitchen table. It sent me mental, I must have scratched and punched him to a pulp, cos he was unconscious when I came round.
Right, so maybe we should get rid of position three.
No, I was thinking we could market position three for S and M clients.
That is a great executive decision, Mandy, I can see this company going from strength to strength.
One thing, Paul, why can’t you put this device in woman’s knickers, would that not work just as well.
It did work just as well, Mandy. I gave a pair to Jenny, and she dumped me two days later with the words. You are now surplus to requirements.
Like fallen warriors,
we collapse side by side,
glistening in the sweaty afterglow.
Limbs still entangled,
too exhausted to sing the other’s praise,
we stare at the blades of the bedroom fan
slowly circling above.
A lone,
satisfying sigh
escapes in between your deep,
cleansing breathes.
Your smile
reflects in the brass, ball base
of the rotating fan.
I smile in return,
unable to rescue my gaze
from the fan
cooling off our steaming bodies.
Slowly,
your right hand moves;
fingers entangle with those on my left.
I still taste you on my lips.
I silently laugh to myself
upon the realization that I still have one sock on;
the other dangling on the end of a fan blade.
The remainder of our clothes
strewn around the room
as if the hamper had exploded.
Your brassiere
ruined when I removed it
with my teeth.
Beads of sweat roll down my thigh
where our legs remain interlocked –
I love the smooth contrast of your skin
against my sun dried legs.
The ever so slight breeze
created by the fan
is starting to dry our exposed skin
as we slowly regain strength.
The circling blades hypnotize.
The subtle,
rhythmic hum
from the fan motor
mixes with the recent memory
of the rhythmic dance
just concluded.
Your hand,
now lightly brushing against me,
is re-energizing my engine.
Slight,
involuntary movements
near your finger tips
indicate our dance may not yet be over.
I blink
to interrupt my transfixed,
mesmerized relationship
with the ceiling fan,
so I can once again
concentrate on you.
Energy restored –
as if pumped back into our souls
by the bedroom fan –
the warriors re-engage
in battle once again.
A battle in which
each warrior wins.
Homeless, destitute with nothing more then a backpack and cigarettes
down the rabbit hole she went, no linen tablecloths just stricken wood,
in a house of ill repute;.
She could not refuse the hunkering of a horny man who lived by threats
so she counted her bills and tucked them in her brassiere with a tear
She cringed when glass smashed and grinded her teeth when she was cold
it was a bordello made surreal by alcohol mellowed Johns who were so old
A bawdy crib, (bagnio del innocente) bath for the innocent...
a knocking shop that foiled the linen and gave shiners to young girls,
no one cared
in this disorderly place, where the stew was watered down with whiskey float
Then came the raid that brought everything to a halt,
in a gestalt moment she found freedom, perhaps her prayers were answered?
Down to the river she went for a bath and a rest,
it was then that she remembered her first time, it was incest *
The wild caged bird had no other place to hide but in this fortress
she slept for days on the grass beside a great big boulder, ,
all the wild animals in the forest thought she was a Princess.
They let her sleep, and fed her pine nuts from the trees. Until this day,
Gianna never mentioned the brothel to anyone, no even herself.
Feb. 20, 2021
Erotic Errata
by Michael R. Burch
I didn’t mean to love you; if I did,
it came unbid-
en, and should’ve remained hid-
den!
***
Less Heroic Couplets: Marketing 101
by Michael R. Burch
Building her brand, she disrobes,
naked, except for her earlobes.
***
Negligibles
by Michael R. Burch
Show me your most intimate items of apparel;
begin with the hem of your quicksilver slip ...
***
Warming Her Pearls
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
Warming her pearls,
her breasts gleam like constellations.
Her belly is a bit rotund ...
she might have stepped out of a Rubens.
***
Cover Girl
by Michael R. Burch
Cunning
at sunning
and dunning,
the stunning
young woman’s in the running
to be found nude on the cover
of some patronizing lover.
In this case the cover is a bed cover, where the enterprising young mistress is about to be covered herself.
***
First Base Freeze
by Michael R. Burch
I find your love unappealing
(no, make that appalling)
because you prefer kissing
then stalling.
***
Nun Fun Undone
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
Abbesses’
recesses
are not for excesses!
***
Less Heroic Couplets: Sex Hex
by Michael R. Burch
for and after Richard Thomas Moore
Love’s full of cute paradoxes
(and highly acute poxes).
Published by *Asses of Parnassus, Lighten Up Online* and *Poem Today*
***
Retro
by Michael R. Burch
Now, once again,
love’s a redundant pleasure,
as we laugh
at my childish fumblings
through the acres of your dress,
past your wily-wired brassiere,
through your panties’ pink billows
of thrill-piqued frills ...
Till I lay once again—panting redfaced
at your gayest lack of resistance,
and, later, at your milktongued
mewlings in the dark ...
When you were virginal,
sweet as eucalyptus,
we did not understand
the miracle of repentance,
and I took for granted
your obsessive distance ...
But now I am happily unbuttoning
that chaste dress,
unhitching that firm-latched bra,
tugging at those parachute-like panties—
the ones you would have gladly forgotten
had I not bought them in this year’s size.
Originally published by Erosha
THAT FRIDAY FEELING
That Friday feeling, like a click of Oz heels,
catching the last balloon home, a sip of wine.
Finally free from a week on call, slipping into
my favorite pair of jeans and a loose brassiere.
That Friday feeling, of popcorn and theater,
an extra special thai dinner, cuddling up
with my date — Dr. Jekyll not Mr. Hyde —
that wonderful husband whose put work aside.
That Friday feeling, I warm up in my favorite chair,
write a poem with character, read one
or two books that have been waiting
for me. Catching up with shows on t.v.
2/25/2018
Silent One’s Friday Feeling Contest
peppy porcelain puppy poops on the floor
wacky winged walrus whizzes on the door
enigmatic eonian elephant espies some bamboo
clever castrated cormorant shrieks yahoo
brassiere-busting bonobo barfs on the table
maniacal mystic monkey freaks on cable
sly sonambulent sloth bear slumbers in his cave
natty naughty nutty newt nests in a wave
dizzy ditzy doormouse dances with a broomstick
tawdry turgid tiger toys with his joystick
rugged recondite raccoon races up rut-marred roads
finicky febrile frog farts on frightened toads
this sonnet celebrates sassiness midst sundry incantations
~ surrenders to insanity and scoffs at punctuation
Naked and Revealed,
Sexy or Lewd,
What can I do
If I have them on me?
Inseparable, heavy beads,
Bulgy with shady teats.
All you care:
Is it concealed well beneath bra strips?
Gasping for breath,
Sharp stabbing in my breasts,
Lying on the bed,
Nausea till my neck -
All due to the unbearable clasp at the chest.
Tell me,
Is it still my fault,
If a brassiere is not enough for my ample busts to exalt?
Should I cut them?
Or should I burn them?
Since I can't stop their charming dance,
For those
Who only know how to objectify and sexualize their existence,
Without any rightful cause.
It's all you care about.
Maybe what suffocates isn't the bras,
But the disgust for what's beneath them -
And that's what I care about.
Jack was sitting poker faced
With bullets backed by bitches.
Neal hunched at the wheel
Puttin everyone in stitches.
He was braggin 'bout
This nurse he'd screwed,
While drivin through Nebraska.
Said that when she came,
She honked the horn,
And Neal just barely
Missed a truck
And then he asked her
If she'd like to cum like that
All the way to CalifornY?
See a redhead in a uniform
Will always make you horny.
With her hair net and her white
Shoes and a name tag and a hat,
She drove like Andy Granatelli
And knew how to fix a flat!
And Jack was at the bottom
Of his second 2020.
Neal was yellin out the window
Tryin to buy some beannies
From a Lincoln, full of Mexicans
Whose left rear tire blew
And the son's of bitches
Prit near ran us off the road!
Well the nurse had
Spilled the Manischewitz
All up and down her dress,
Then she lit the map on fire
And Neal just had to guess.
Should we try to find
A bootleg route
Or a fillin station open?
The nurse was dumping
Out her purse looking for a kiss.
Jack was out of cigarettes,
When we crossed the yellow line.
The gas pumps looked
Like tombstones from then on.
It felt lonelier than a parking lot
When the last car pulls away.
And the moonlight dressed
The double breasted foot hills
In the mirror, weaving out
A negligee and black brassiere.
The mercury was running hot
And we were almost out a gas,
Just then Florence Nightingale
Dropped her draws and stuck
Her fat ass out the window
To a Wilson Picket tune
And she shouted "get a load of this! "
And give the finger to the moon.
Counting one eyed jacks
And whistlin Dixie in the car,
Neal was doin least a hundred
When we saw a shootin star.
Florence wished that Neal
Would hold her 'stead of chewin his cigar.
Jack was noddin out and dreamin
That he was in a bar,
With Charlie Parker on the bandstand
And not a worry in the world,
And a glass of beer in one hand
And his arm around a girl.
And Neal was singin to the nurse
Underneath a Harken moon
And somehow you could tell
We'd be in CalifornY pretty soon.
Deja Vu; I believe that's what knowing minds call this anomaly.
Another Baroque tinged ballroom boasting bona fide blue-bloods.
Poorly feigned elan for the singing dilettante causing the cacophony.
The ennui in the room due, I'm sure, to the
artistic Carte Blanche given the chirping dud.
It's time someone demonstrate "avant-garde;" give them an actual reason for the sneers.
So on my way out I'll loose this brassiere and with a toss add some "bulbs" to the chandelier!
01/24/2018
(It's 10 lines on my tablet :D)
Assigned words:
Anomaly, Avant-garde, Baroque, Bona fide, Cacophony, Carte Blanche, Deja Vu, Dilettante, Elan, Ennui
THE PARK BENCH AT CHRISTMAS
she shed first her hat, gloves and scarf.
later her glamorous coat, leggings and shoes.
she snatched off her dress to catch the eye,
then brassiere and panties but no man partook.
she plucked her eyebrows and hair off her scalp,
clipped fingers and toes and her iceberg nose,
then in utter horror, as she grew older, various parts
in a most vulnerable way began to fall away.
snowbirds begin to whisper of a skeletal noose —
the clickety-clack of a virgin’s jaw in maudlin movement,
as only the geese head South, her regret grows madder yet.
on the bench Madge sits in silvertone chattering bone
“all alone….all alone...all alone”
11/19/2018
Sandra Kendrick’s The Park Bench At Christmas Poetry Contest
Poem based upon a photo showing the skeleton of a woman
waiting on a park bench hoping to find a man tolove her