Long Corset Poems
Long Corset Poems. Below are the most popular long Corset by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Corset poems by poem length and keyword.
Clouds spiral down and curl around to touch me
—not those western drizzle shrouds
baring a soul of misery mizzle
...though I adore a good wallow in sorrow —no
these clouds come from yonder bluebird wilds
white cirrus wispy and whispery dance around me
I steal one to wear across my shoulders
like a platinum’s blonde’s faux stole
they come to me like papier-mâché angels —no no
that’s too cliché… and passé for I’m far beyond
the Godly touch of angels… hmm.. they come to me
like a lover —no too easy …like a heartbreak-er lover!
yah I’ll go with that and get a taboo tattoo of his name
anyway the clouds they find me where I stand
dissatisfied with being satisfied
the result of my cool cat face seduction
I wear a crimson bee balm boutonniere
display it on my plunging V lapel but
it attracts wasps instead of honey bees; I find
danger brings a secret pleasure to my displeasure
my leopard print pants (red sky colored)
stirs sir knight with his bridled gaze and walking stick
he watches my next move on the chessboard
tries to guess my breezy strategy
my hands behind my head legs crossed
maybe it’s a white crested ocean I'm floating on
—or wrestling with— either way
I’m here to play and paint a displeased scene
watercolors? they’re just transparent hues
applied to my white background
depending on the mood of my mood ring —but
when acrylics bleed it’s harder to see the scene
colors escape their space creating a slurry
of what is where where is when when is why
and why don’t know why ..what?! but I know how
blurry lines take on a life of their own
and shapes a new fate from ‘no gesso’ mistakes
I could switch my style to snarly tiger stripes today
and gladly take that horse-headed knight down
that wooden old guard has new orders
he’s suspicious of me scrutinizes me
but only half as much as I’m used to
his right hand on his monocle
—the other eye blind
just beyond the reach of his walking stick
I free my torso of its purple grapevine corset
uncinching my fake waisted form —I muse
if my time as a wastrel was wasted or invested
oh …the monocle is telescoping me again
I shimmy lose my butterfly wings
slap him as I flap them and fly away
it’s hard to know if I’m still beautiful
or if I’m just broken
—either way I embrace the rainy side of the rainbow
happily discontent
Call me not a child,
Treat me with adult words,
Eyes that scan the essence,
And see the centuries I have lived.
Ancient soul though young flesh,
Half my heart remains in an older existence.
I wish to feel the gentle,
The tenderness that comes with love,
Finger tips soft and feather like.
I yearn to feel the rough,
The firm grip of a lover,
Hands grasping hips in a fury of need.
Lips rubbing together in absence of a kiss.
I need to speak of higher things,
realms that others fear to not believe,
And visions that we both have seen.
Lie with me in clover beds,
Stars sparkling bright above our heads,
Birds swooping to deliver prey to young,
Eyes filled with awe at the world's cruel beauty.
Lie with me in open thought,
Minds roaming over hills and sea,
Connecting to the world.
Releasing raw unadulterated energy,
Through just a simple touch,
Conscious spreading to the sky,
To flit like hummingbirds.
Call me not a child,
For the things I have seen,
The memories I hold within,
Through one life to the next.
Falling, falling, down to the sea,
Bright sky, rolling green,
sharp waves black, crash against the rocks,
Awaiting our meeting of fatality.
Flowers high in weeds,
Grow up to itchy gowns,
And crunch beneath slipper-ed feet.
Corsets pulled tight,
Tight enough that I forget to breathe,
When in the presence of a man.
Blame the corset for my lack of breathe,
Though he steal it from my honeyed lips,
With not even a brushing kiss.
And a wedding band surprised,
Beneath a weeping willow,
With barely family enough to witness the event.
Four wheeled Slow rolling machine,
In comparison to today's technologies,
To ride a get away in sun lit heat.
Black with shinning seats and room for four,
Or even five if they would squeeze.
Two women, a daughter and a son,
A life of running, identity hidden,
Bolstered weapons for protection,
And an unending flow of cash.
Life seemed easy - at least when not being shot at.
So call me not a child,
For I have seen many years,
Felt the touch of lovers hands,
The cool of friends tears,
Felt the crashing waves,
As another life came to an end,
Spoke of many things,
And made otherworldly friends.
Kiss my lips with fierceness,
When I have yet again died,
I fear not the otherworldly,
So tell them not to cry.
wind howling and silent whistling as if a lover whispering softly in the prince's ears
as he stares longing at the moon, his eyes glazing over as he sees the ghost of his
bride stare back at him with its silver glow. He smiles softly, remembering her scent
and the feel of her soft red rings of hair sprawled across his white linen pillows.
He remembers her laugh as he would tickle her insides, and feel her warmth drip over his hand into his palm. Her squeal as he blew his hot, steamy breath on her neck and began nibbling on the warm and heated skin that was exposed-the rest hidden by the ballgown that was clothing her...sadly....
He growled in frustration when his fingers of his left hand traveled to her back and
met the small buttons of her corset-the tearing of fabric and pleasureable screams
fill the chamber and it is her turn to please him...
her fingers find their way under his vest, his shirt, tickling his stomach...tracing the
skin and following the path down to his...following the happy trail downwards.
Stopping at the top of his trousers. She grinned wildly when he growled, biting her
earlobe and she giggled madly when he wriggled his finger inside her, her hips
bucked and her legs wrapped around his waist....
the moon was bright outside that night...as it is now as the prince watches it,
waiting for his lover-bride to return to him...
but knowing full well that she is gone, and her loving memories and lustful events in
this very chamber are the only things that fill him with the desire to wake each
morning...he feels her hands trickle down his stomach and swirl around his belly
button, the hairs of his happy trail stand up as his member bulges in his shorts...
he feels the need to dump ice down them, but without the heat, there would be no
memories, sadly, its all he has of his lover-bride. He sighs, turning away from the
window and laying down on the duvet that was to be shared between them, her
scent still lingers on the pillows and in the sheets...
he buries himself in them both...pleasured just by that....
There is one lass, and one alone, compels the sun - no other,
And as it just so happens, that bonny maid's my mother!
Now, don't you dare make mention of her fast-expanding corset,
For just one taste, her hummus paste - I'm sure that you'd endorse it.
You've never seen such rosy cheeks, (the same, her nose and ears) ...
It matters not her flushing skin means one too many beers ...
And, oh, that golden voice of hers, like a choir of angels singing!
So bright and clear, to pound your ear, (you'll get used to all the
ringing).
And my-oh-my, her generous heart! Almost always gifting food ...
(I'm forced to eat the stuff myself, so she won't get in "that" mood).
She has the softest skin I know, the coldest wind won't phase her,
With the cutest little mustache, (though it's time she bought a razor).
And oh-my-gosh, her hugs - divine! The warm technique she uses ...
She'll squeeze you like a pipe wrench, (don't mind the breaks and
bruises).
Don't even THINK to call her "fat", or feel my wrath, thereof ...
As Dad said, ('fore he disappeared), "There's SO much there to love!"
Ah - that whole thing with father, well, she says he ran away ...
Tho' he left his ring and dentures, (did she close the well that day?).
Indeed, she has a winning smile - such charm, it does bequeath!
I know her glow will warm you so, (despite those missing teeth).
What's best, her witty comebacks, you'll be laughing hard, I guess,
(I suggest you DO, or option two, is the club beneath her dress).
Oh, the love and joys with mother, now where on earth do I begin?
I'd be happy to keep yapping ... (for another fifth of gin).
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Gin In the Morning" Poetry Contest, Julia Ward, Judge & Sponsor.
Submitted on July 13, 2018 to the "Amuse Me With Your Rhyme - Let A Man From Asia Be Your Guide" Poetry Contest, Nick Trim, Judge & Sponsor. Still Pending.
Ideologies and laws are fences of the boundless world,
Invisible enclosures that frame our souls within cold walls,
Paths drawn in the dust of time, silent steel labyrinths,
For our fragile lives, squeezed into norms and regulations.
Every metal fence is a boundary of unknown dreams,
A circle that limits our sky, preventing free flight,
Awakening us within constrained borders, like birds in tight cages,
Lost on predetermined paths, blinded by artificial lights.
In the shadow of these fences, our hearts beat like echoes,
Searching for freedom in the facets of the starry sky,
But the walls grow, like illusions rooting us in the abyss of days,
Of lives unfolding under a limited sky, an eternal waiting.
The magic of the world struggles against the steel bars, a light seeks fissures,
Thin slits through which our dreams escape, seeking infinity,
In secrecy, the souls rise towards the stars, in sacred dances,
Passing beyond the fences of the world, towards unseen vastness.
Through these metal paths, we wander like shadows of anguish,
But the magic of life, secret and silent, whispers sacred names in the night.
It’s an ancient song, urging the soul to see beyond boundaries,
To spread its wings and venture into the dream without laws or limits.
Laws are just waves on a perpetual ocean,
Fences, shadows that temporarily corset the paths of dreaming,
But within us, beneath the velvet of silence, the longing for freedom smolders,
Each dream awakening from the slumber of binding ideologies.
The melancholy of the nocturnal sky, with its stars like fallen jewels,
Reminds us of the infinite silences within, of the unspoken magic.
And in these warm nights, in the shadow of invisible walls,
We find the secret gate to the unbounded, where dreams become reality.
We just need to close our eyes and see beyond the fences,
To feel the magic of the world, the quiet murmur of untreasured life,
For beyond every metal fence, every rigid realm,
The sacred freedom of dreams awaits us, the place where we are whole.
Dirty Laundry
Last night in a dream; he was in the strangest place;
He was surrounded by a group of singers; that sang Amazing Grace.
There was a lady in the middle; who had a sign that said divorced;
She wore it like a corset; so tight it changed her voice.
She offered him assistance; even though he knew just how;
He had washed his cloths before; and he didn’t need it now.
Politely he did listen; and even seemed amused;
He told a little joke to her; and she came off as abused.
Latter on while folding cloths; some others tried to help;
Mrs. Divorce restricting corset; cried out with a yelp.
She said he was pathetic; or something such as that;
Amazed and jaw slapped open; he thought, what ever kitty cat.
Next thing that he knew; he was sitting in a room;
And people were conversing; how the end was coming soon
Everyone agreed; as their heads did nod in time;
Isn’t that just peachy; was what was on his mind.
Latter on that night; still with-in his dreams;
The lady with the corset; was ripping at the seams.
The ladies kept on singing; as if it didn’t matter;
But the list of all their grievances; just kept on getting fatter.
They mocked him for his socks; obviously mismatched;
They watched him like a hawk and angry looks dispatched.
His detergent was unacceptable; it didn’t have a brightener;
And his bed sheets and his underwear; didn’t have a whitener.
When his washing was completed; he thought of toilet habits;
And when they shopped for tissue; by the cases would they grab it.
Of course there’s scented candles; and fresheners for the air;
That would cost a piece of change; but of course they wouldn’t care.
A dream about the laundry mat; and the queens up in the room;
Speaking out their cackles’; like the witches with their brooms.
The odyssey about it all; it’s the same thing when awake;
Life can’t really be like this; this must be a mistake.
Multiply a horseradish with a jar of mustard and gain what exactly? A pickled onion? A beetroot? It's simply quite fascinating the divination of an oven glove. Materialistic bacon joints in a suit can often jump very high in the air. Above the clouds of course. Naturally. Interesting isn't it? The equilibrium of a soup spoon cannot live in a right angled triangle but a circus tent in a kitchen can be very very entertaining indeed. As the lights from a cup spin in robotic circular rhythms it is then time to prance down a hallway holding a small number of items. And here they are. Twenty-five fish bowls, an arena in a casserole dish, and a lint cloth. But of course one must adorn oneself with a scent of the finest secretion. A nice aroma. Pleasant isn't it? Great. Apple calling knock knock bing bong. And a grinning backward flipping pig says hello to giant birds, horns in a field and a forest, paws with bananas and an igloo based penguin sends smoke signals to seals so don't dance anti clockwise in that dress or you may fall over the tables. A floor brings gratitude to a leaf. And a seed is watered gently to ensure even growth. And now. And then. And often. It is to be ascertained that a curtain pole dancing to electro guitar is very fashionable. Stylish even. Buttons baking breaded boiled baps. Pickled papayas playing polo. Aliens athletically aesthetically aromatically arriving. And a jar of milk sings to the orange juice on the breakfast table. Peruse news then? Pleasing pink whale in a frilly dress and waving to the Coriolanus in a corset. Haha and animalistic anarchy and not only for the sake of the entertainment. But a great holiday in the house. And now sleep. Z z z z z then wake up. Good. A rake in a cottage is akin to a spade in a tea cup. *** multifunctional and multidimensional si go multiply. Pratagonistical Z
Form:
The bra strap drops,
it clings to my shoulder.
Each inhalation makes the fabric vibrate.
My hair drips water on my chest.
It penetrates the skin and within.
Me sitting on the edge of the bath tub,
pondering,
wondering,
wandering.
Another strap let loose.
I unhinge the corset.
My toes touch the tiles like dancing piano keys.
I am short.
The mirror vanishes
the upper half of my body.
The other side is much more real.
She has fierce, piercing eyes with flare.
Out-reach her palm and we are connected.
Goosebumps arise as a breeze hacks in.
The door flings open and shut with the muting sound of oblivion.
Express who I am.
Cuz I know not how to make it happen.
Outside is a battlefield.
The innocent is not spared.
Raw,
raw,
roar,
roar.
Conquer nothing of that strength.
The weak they see in me is nothing but my flesh.
I am weak.
But this weak is not real.
Neither are their strengths.
Sliced every layer of material off me,
one by one by one by one,
until I've got none remain.
I smell crystal clear reservoir in the bathroom.
Lost In France
1888, Paris.
Lost in France.
I do not know,
Nor understand
The rules of your
Sophisticated dance.
This Paris is not for me.
A city of romance, of poetry-
This meeting was my final chance.
You gazed at my withered beauty, askance.
As if I had transmogrified into some ageing ape
Perchance.
Guzzling cheap purple and yellow wine
By the banks of the roaring Seine-
Trying, by imbibing, to drown away
The miseries of the day.
And the nights are so much worse;
You turn your back to me, cruel, curt and terse.
For I thirst for far more than wine.
I need you to love me, I need you to be mine.
But since I am so plain of face,
And my corset bursting at each shabby lace;
I will push your weighted body down, into the melting deep.
Then you will sleep, dream of my long lost beauty,
And be forever mine, to keep.
If only if you had loved me as before,
With youth and beauty bursting from my every pore.
But you looked at me
As one might look at a dead and spoiling piece of meat.
You were my childhood sweetheart, but now so bittersweet-
For life had been so kind to you, so harsh to me;
What else could a slighted woman do?
I wanted no-one else but you.
And as you lie, supine upon the river bed
I wish to climb inside, to be with you, instead.
A splash, a crash, I see your smiling,no longer jaded, eyes
You are happy I have joined you.
I can almost hear your loving sighs!
The last breath leaves my lungs, as all fades to grey.
Wrapped in your arms forever,
It was always meant to be this way.
No longer lost, but forever found, I say.
No longer lost in France, but death, like love
Will find a way.
Taped to the door’s plexiglass pane, a portrait
Of a Savior with ardent heart burning
Sunlight invades with the turning of hinges
Untethering the hospitality of Tony, the lone waiter
His Brazilian arms are swinging doors, open to embrace
He wore fishnet leggings to the Halloween Jamboree
Leather corset paired with his jet black hair,
Moving with grace at the age of seventy
To the right of the register towering above
The marble counter, the burnout teen dreams
Of welding underwater. A master of sparks
Under the pressure of the indomitable sea
Within his perspective the walls contort,
Xanax whispers in voices of an angel’s Hark
“They won’t know if the register’s short”
Behind the oven is the maestro of cheese and painted tomato
Luis whistles and sings ballads in the tongues of banda
Smiling at nothing with teeth all jagged and yellow
Welcoming all who wander with an “Ah mi amigo, ¿como estas?”
A jolly grin and laughing lungs lift a belly made of pizza dough
The oiled gears of a restaurant’s engine, fueled by cervezas
Joe rides into the shop he owns on his jet black Harley
To work with the line cooks in his leather steel toed boots
He was once Philly cop, and he may still be stuck in center city
He never lets his gun leave the secure embrace of his belt loop
Yet under such a Italian-American macho man brovato
Lies the soul of a tender soul that loves to cook for his community
Across the street, sunflowers raise their winter withered heads
The sizzling steak sandwiches sing in a chorus of cholesterol
The leather booths welcome anyone escaping the World’s dread
So come to Carmines, a source of solace for any and all