Just the end of one other debutante night,
λ
λ
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.
Zoya Springwala
Zoya Springwala
7 days ago

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.

fingering his debutante then his tight Oxford collar
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ

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
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ
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
.
fingering his debutante then his tight Oxford collar
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ
βέƦẙḽ Dṏṽ
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
.
Did Marie Currie suffer meekly the debutante?
Brian Oarr

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
Cswythle
Cswythle
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...

but enter here, your debutante.
molly sheeves
molly sheeves
Aug 10, 2013      Aug 13, 2013

you’re the streetsign at the corner of intrigue and desire,
right next to melancholy hill,
perimetered in barbed wire.

you’re the bloom breaking through the chainlinked fence
crossing the border,
finally tired of the intense.

you’re the solar light when the
sun don’t shine,
the lie in our eyes when we
say we’re fine

you blur the lines between should and want.
a privilege for me, for others you daunt.
so fruitful now
but then, so gaunt.
but enter here, your debutante.

i wrote this on cocaine one night in like ten minutes. this shit just came to me like it never has before. i wrote it about the boy im seeing. and a side of him that ive only seen come out for me.
A debutante passed by my uncut grass
antony glaser
antony glaser
Apr 24, 2012

In the morning the mist arises
but some will say it is
yesterday's hubris.
I dont have an attic
to wayleigh communications
or require windows
to twitch gingham curtains
so the deep chill
void remains.

A debutante passed by my uncut grass
but she was no better served,
a dream interview with Playboy Club
turned sour, this time of year.
At least she hasn't endless dealership openings
or humoured the word "exhilarating" in interviews
when inventing a rich Stepfather.
Like me there be few visitors.
Thirty  stubborn years will pass
but at least she know the meaning.
The pride of the morning.

 
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