FullMoonFloon
FullMoonFloon
Dec 22, 2014

Pushed down a flight of stairs
The word “asshole” is forbidden
But two little girls dancing, flinging their hair about
Zoom, zoom on developing breasts
I loved boys the best.

One, two, three, four
Enchanted and consumed in the world of my handy cam corder
I would hit record a thousand times,
Perform with me.
Like another limb, a lens could speak all the words I couldn’t say

Dialect so thick and heavy
Lined eyeliner
Everyone was southern
I was so southern
I am so southern.
Full circle.

And the boys, they truly are gentlemen
Perhaps we are slow in updates
And it takes time to adapt
But everyone here tries their best to be friendly
And kind.

Getting off of a plane
Looking around as if you have encountered another planet
And then slipping so fluidly, so simply
Right back into it.
But grateful to see things--me
Have changed.

Privacy is not frequent
In a house quite so big
But camaraderie and eloquent drunken conversation
Fill your heart
No matter how much you change your destination.

Zoya Springwala
Zoya Springwala
Aug 25, 2014

Her stained lips,

Red and incorrigible,

Polluted with lust,

Kissed a hundred men.

Her hands were gnarled like her words,

Profane and seeking.

Debauched were her fingers,

Mysteries hidden beneath her long nails.

Her legs were long and slender,

Wrapped around masculine secrets.

Men fell at her immaculate feet,

The thin, shapely waist

Filled with tantalizing, surreptitious tales.

Her heart black like her soul,

Her years young and numbered.

She was a dream,

The worst kind of a dream there ever was.



She was a nightmare.

Just the end of one other debutante night,
Mydriasis
Mydriasis
Sep 16, 2013      Sep 17, 2013

Get your finery on and let the games begin,
Does it look like you'd trust him?
Blackout suit, purple shirt,
indigo tie and crimson eyes.
Sly, slick, sardonic and wicked
wearing a gentlemanly disguise.

The dinner was alright
now get ready to fight.
White powder on the counter,
A dusted card and a rolled-up fiver.
Finish up your line
and get out there.

Codine chills as calm is instilled,
Colorful lights and relaxed thrills.

No chats so I'll settle for that.

A while later and we're back in black,
Now lets all get completely smashed;
Hometown beatdown.

Go hard or go home.

Messy nights never get old,
River of glass across a broken road.
Tonic wine is best served cold
though the medicinal properties remain unknown.
A bottle of B from Buckfast Abby,
Commotion lotion, blame it on the buckie.

Just the end of one other debutante night,
Staying classy while we drink and fight.

Making hedonistic debauchery stylish
because we're Irish.
macabre debutante lover baby.
Joshua Haines
Joshua Haines
Dec 30, 2014

She applied the latest fashion tips to her lips
and put on the newest dress to cover the mess.
I held her as she swayed in front of the mirror.
"I want to get away from here," she cooes in my ear.

It rains ridicule as she tries to be classic cool;
storms that brew from within-
and there's no way of knowing how it'll begin.
She'll say that she's a succubus
but I promise that she's a star and thus
destined to implode but shine beautiful before death.
And I await to be burnt by her deathly breath.

She says that she feels detached,
I read the message that has hatched
from ten eggs thrown from a wrist.
Her lips are mine but all I do is miss.
Her lips aren't mine and all I do is this.

I kill time with new noise and old sights.
She asks if I'll be home tonight
and I wish I could because I'd clearly sway thee,
macabre debutante lover baby.

Her name is Tricia and as I whisper,
her cheeks blush.
"Don't break hearts or mine too much."
I could say the say the same for you, my Josh.
Couldn't we all break broken signs
with the love we reallign?

I tantalize her lullabies with eager hands
and lethargic eyes.
I shoulder her and press her near,
and kiss her from neck to each ear.
She slides hands and traces each crease.
She runs her hands as soft as fleece.
My hands hide in her underwear
and she says,
"How did you remove all of my air?"
She fixes her hands and grabs my base,
I kiss each corner of her face.
Stroking, stoking my desire,
I ask her to lay naked by the fire.

I disrobe and throw each cloth on ground.
Tricia takes off her bra and there is no sound.
Her breasts make me eagersome
and, suddenly, I'm no longer numb .
I tell her that if it doesn't feel right
that we don't have to make love tonight.
She walks and her feet kiss the tile.
She says she wants to stay for a while.

We get lost in blanket and the cloth is soft,
as we move from the fire to a loft.
I tell her that her lips are silk,
her chest plays songs,
and her taste is milk.

Her feet appear behind my head,
and she bites her lip until I feel dead.
I place my hand between her thighs
and listen to each moan and sigh.

I hear her shudder as I break her soil
and I feel my body start to boil,
as I push in and kiss her nose.
She throws back her head
as her mouth can't close.

I wake up and she's next to me.
I kiss her forehead to thank for harmony.
I pick her up and let her bloom in my arms like a flower.
And then I walk her to the shower.

fingering his debutante then his tight Oxford collar
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ the Smartass Rabbi

On the fifth Sunday in December in the leap of leap years,
in the end of seven cycles of Sabbatical years,
harvests of highborn maidens descend
the spiral staircase of the Waldorf
in a procession of shifting opalescence.
White gloved hands glide down the bronze balustrades
mirrored right and left, mimicking the demiurge of DNA
codons sequencing blonde, brunette, redhead,
in endless permutation, divination, transfiguration,
parading the paradigm of life in designer gowns.
 
A humongous table set in an altared state of churrascaria,
choice charcuterie of grilled ewe, ram, calf and ox lay
in neat compartments, the turtle-doves pigeonholed,
croissants and challah rolls bowered in multigrain baguettes.
At center sits a bottomless pomegranate-shaped punch bowl, laced with 'X'.
"Yo DJ...Spin That Wheel."
Sorry, I mean, "Music Maestro!"
The tambourine man tabers, the flautist blows his fipple
and the drummer beats his breast à la Johnny Weissmuller.
Between the habanera and the seguidilla the ballroom fills
with the whirling tails of dust devils,
swallowing the hit-and-run swans, the metro-faygeleh Swann's,
and circumcised schvantzes in their dancing vortex
'Who turned off the air-con?' asks a nescient nebbish,
fingering his debutante then his tight Oxford collar
whilst lifting the brim of his trilby.
First a debutante, well known for her spontaneity,
spontaneously combusts.
Then another, and another, and another --
aligned like flaming henges pointing to the sun.

Baal lights a Havana, draws deeply...
'Hmmm, the Navels and Valencias
will be very sweet this year.'

Author's Notes: Baal can refer to any god worshiped by the Ammonites, Canaanites, Phoenician and related cultures in North Africa and the Levant. In some texts Baal is used for Hadad, a god of the rain, thunder, fertility and agriculture. Worshipers of Baal were known to engage in propitiatory virgin (and child) sacrifice to incur divine favor for a favorable crop (hence, the sweet navels and Valencias).

In Salammbô, Gustave Flaubert describes the sacrificial compartments in the Baal idol (where I liberally stuffed croissants and challah rolls, etc.):
"Homage to thee, Sun! King of the two zones, Self-generating Creator, Father and Mother, Father and Son, God and Goddess, Goddess and God!" And their voices were lost in the outburst of instruments sounding simultaneously to drown the cries of the victims... The hierodules, with a long hook, opened the seven-storied compartments on the body of the Baal. They put meal into the highest, two turtle-doves into the second, an ape into the third, a ram into the fourth, a sheep into the fifth, and as no ox was to be had for the sixth, a tawny hide taken from the sanctuary was thrown into it. The seventh compartment yawned empty still. Before undertaking anything it was well to make trial of the arms of the god. Slender chainlets stretched from his fingers up to his shoulders and fell behind, where men by pulling them made the two hands rise to a level with the elbows, and come close together against the belly; they were moved several times in succession with little abrupt jerks. Then the instruments were still. The fire roared."

My quip about "the metro-faygeleh Swann's" is a passing allusion to  Marcel Proust's novel, À la recherche du temps perdu (Remembrance of Things Past), Volume One: Swann's Way. Proust was a closeted 'faygeleh' (Yiddish for gay).

Baal
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baal
.
fingering his debutante then his tight Oxford collar
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ the Smartass Rabbi
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ the Smartass Rabbi
Dec 31, 2013      Dec 31, 2013

On the fifth Sunday in December in the leap of leap years,
in the end of seven cycles of Sabbatical years,
harvests of highborn maidens descend
the spiral staircase of the Waldorf
in a procession of shifting opalescence.
White gloved hands glide down the bronze balustrades
mirrored right and left, mimicking the demiurge of DNA
codons sequencing blonde, brunette, redhead,
in endless permutation, divination, transfiguration,
parading the paradigm of life in designer gowns.
 
A humongous table set in an altared state of churrascaria,
choice charcuterie of grilled ewe, ram, calf and ox lay
in neat compartments, the turtle-doves pigeonholed,
croissants and challah rolls bowered in multigrain baguettes.
At center sits a bottomless pomegranate-shaped punch bowl, laced with 'X'.
"Yo DJ...Spin That Wheel."
Sorry, I mean, "Music Maestro!"
The tambourine man tabers, the flautist blows his fipple
and the drummer beats his breast à la Johnny Weissmuller.
Between the habanera and the seguidilla the ballroom fills
with the whirling tails of dust devils,
swallowing the hit-and-run swans, the metro-faygeleh Swann's,
and circumcised schvantzes in their dancing vortex
'Who turned off the air-con?' asks a nescient nebbish,
fingering his debutante then his tight Oxford collar
whilst lifting the brim of his trilby.
First a debutante, well known for her spontaneity,
spontaneously combusts.
Then another, and another, and another --
aligned like flaming henges pointing to the sun.

Baal lights a Havana, draws deeply...
'Hmmm, the Navels and Valencias
will be very sweet this year.'

Author's Notes: Baal can refer to any god worshiped by the Ammonites, Canaanites, Phoenician and related cultures in North Africa and the Levant. In some texts Baal is used for Hadad, a god of the rain, thunder, fertility and agriculture. Worshipers of Baal were known to engage in propitiatory virgin (and child) sacrifice to incur divine favor for a favorable crop (hence, the sweet navels and Valencias).

In Salammbô, Gustave Flaubert describes the sacrificial compartments in the Baal idol (where I liberally stuffed croissants and challah rolls, etc.):
"Homage to thee, Sun! King of the two zones, Self-generating Creator, Father and Mother, Father and Son, God and Goddess, Goddess and God!" And their voices were lost in the outburst of instruments sounding simultaneously to drown the cries of the victims... The hierodules, with a long hook, opened the seven-storied compartments on the body of the Baal. They put meal into the highest, two turtle-doves into the second, an ape into the third, a ram into the fourth, a sheep into the fifth, and as no ox was to be had for the sixth, a tawny hide taken from the sanctuary was thrown into it. The seventh compartment yawned empty still. Before undertaking anything it was well to make trial of the arms of the god. Slender chainlets stretched from his fingers up to his shoulders and fell behind, where men by pulling them made the two hands rise to a level with the elbows, and come close together against the belly; they were moved several times in succession with little abrupt jerks. Then the instruments were still. The fire roared."

My quip about "the metro-faygeleh Swann's" is a passing allusion to  Marcel Proust's novel, À la recherche du temps perdu (Remembrance of Things Past), Volume One: Swann's Way. Proust was a closeted 'faygeleh' (Yiddish for gay).

Baal
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baal
.
fingering his debutante then his tight Oxford collar
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ the Smartass Rabbi
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ the Smartass Rabbi
May 9, 2013      May 10, 2013

On the fifth Sunday in December in the leap of leap years,
in the end of seven cycles of Sabbatical years,
harvests of highborn maidens descend
the spiral staircase of the Waldorf
in a procession of shifting opalescence.
White gloved hands glide down the bronze balustrades
mirrored right and left, mimicking the demiurge of DNA
codons sequencing blonde, brunette, redhead,
in endless permutation, divination, transfiguration,
parading the paradigm of life in designer gowns.
 
A humongous table set in an altared state of churrascaria,
choice charcuterie of grilled ewe, ram, calf and ox lay
in neat compartments, the turtle-doves pigeonholed,
croissants and challah rolls bowered in multigrain baguettes.
At center sits a bottomless pomegranate-shaped punch bowl, laced with 'X'.
"Yo DJ...Spin That Wheel."
Sorry, I mean, "Music Maestro!"
The tambourine man tabers, the flautist blows his fipple
and the drummer beats his breast à la Johnny Weissmuller.
Between the habanera and the seguidilla the ballroom fills
with the whirling tails of dust devils,
swallowing the hit-and-run swans, the metro-faygeleh Swann's,
and circumcised schvantzes in their dancing vortex
'Who turned off the air-con?' asks a nescient nebbish,
fingering his debutante then his tight Oxford collar
whilst lifting the brim of his trilby.
First a debutante, well known for her spontaneity,
spontaneously combusts.
Then another, and another, and another --
aligned like flaming henges pointing to the sun.

Baal lights a Havana, draws deeply...
'Hmmm, the Navels and Valencias
will be very sweet this year.'

Author's Notes: Baal can refer to any god worshiped by the Ammonites, Canaanites, Phoenician and related cultures in North Africa and the Levant. In some texts Baal is used for Hadad, a god of the rain, thunder, fertility and agriculture. Worshipers of Baal were known to engage in propitiatory virgin (and child) sacrifice to incur divine favor for a favorable crop (hence, the sweet navels and Valencias).

In Salammbô, Gustave Flaubert describes the sacrificial compartments in the Baal idol (where I liberally stuffed croissants and challah rolls, etc.):
"Homage to thee, Sun! King of the two zones, Self-generating Creator, Father and Mother, Father and Son, God and Goddess, Goddess and God!" And their voices were lost in the outburst of instruments sounding simultaneously to drown the cries of the victims... The hierodules, with a long hook, opened the seven-storied compartments on the body of the Baal. They put meal into the highest, two turtle-doves into the second, an ape into the third, a ram into the fourth, a sheep into the fifth, and as no ox was to be had for the sixth, a tawny hide taken from the sanctuary was thrown into it. The seventh compartment yawned empty still. Before undertaking anything it was well to make trial of the arms of the god. Slender chainlets stretched from his fingers up to his shoulders and fell behind, where men by pulling them made the two hands rise to a level with the elbows, and come close together against the belly; they were moved several times in succession with little abrupt jerks. Then the instruments were still. The fire roared."

My quip about "the metro-faygeleh Swann's" is a passing allusion to  Marcel Proust's novel, À la recherche du temps perdu (Remembrance of Things Past), Volume One: Swann's Way. Proust was a closeted 'faygeleh' (Yiddish for gay).

Baal
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baal
.
Did Marie Currie suffer meekly the debutante?
Brian Oarr
Brian Oarr
Aug 14, 2014

Beware the ugly woman who thirsts for admiration;
She's apt to take up the violin with zeal,
Or keep a parrot as a sign of independence.
Her envious heart makes treacherous her words
To pretty women with their petty self-idolatry.

Did Marie Currie suffer meekly the debutante?
Was "Little Women" a Louisa May ambiguity?
The ugly woman burns monopoly on praise,
Like coals shimmering in a furnace,
A night without neon unthinkable.

She was a debutante.
Dieter Muniz
Oct 8, 2011

We knew limited evil.
We base-valued desirable evil.
We unharness a nice, obedient, satan-tail.
She was fresh.
A raw, vile, unwashed beast.
A love-lorn evil bear.
She ate you so loud
-Idle Wrath
——————————————————————————————————
Would you believe,
I can’t lie?
She was a runner.
I was a bleeder.
She ran fast.
She was a love I’ll never know.
She was a debutante.
she was vaudeville.
I don’t believe
I’m losing it.
-Wild Heart

the edges of her white debutante gown brushing dust off the pavement mak
S
S
Mar 29, 2013

she runs pass the proud stone columns with a pair of dull scissors in her hand
the smell of caramel and incense trailing behind her, touching her back
the edges of her white debutante gown brushing dust off the pavement making grainy sounds
the small bag of gold coins tied to her slender waist with an old soldier's belt
she runs as her heart pleads wildly beneath her pale chest
she runs as blood rushes from her eyes to the cold marble floor
she runs as she imagines his long, long hair...

 
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