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Emmanuella Nov 2018
"I can’t figure it out.” She said.
“I like cigars,
and pretty dresses and crossing my legs.”
She paused,
then continued,
“And I like smoking cigars in pretty dresses while crossing my legs.”
She uncrossed them,
then crossed them again.
One smooth limb over the other.
Just like that.

“But I never seem to have a lighter on hand.
Could you— sir,
please light my cigar?”
“You see, I have no pockets to hold such things and my purse…
Well,
You’ve confiscated that, haven’t you?”

“Thanks.” She breathed,
and inhaled,
and exhaled;
Sluggish wisps of smoke dissipating into the air.
Just. like .that.

“I didn’t know L'homme was into women who smoke cigars in pretty dresses while crossing their legs", She said.
“I mean, how was I to know?
I only noticed him noticing me.
It was probably the way my hair was tousled like so,
Or how my lipstick shone a deep, dangerous rogue,
Or the way I sipped at my champagne…
That made him walk over.”

“But I never asked him to light my cigar
Or comment on my dress…
Or stroke my legs.
So when I whacked him up top over the head with my glass,
I bet he never expected it to shatter and split his skull like so.
He dropped so sudden, sir. I…”
Another ringlet of smoke, a sigh, an uncrossing and crossing of legs again.
“I had no clue,
what else to do,
But to sit still in my pretty dress, with my legs crossed, smoking my cigar trying to figure out...
Just how I'd committed ******.”
"She's a dangerous woman...
Who can ****,
Just with her *** appeal".
Cara Nov 2018
with eyes spotted with stars
and lips painted with blood
the perfect mix
of your best dreams
and your worst nightmares

she loves like Aphrodite
fights like a fatale
bleeding light
spitting blood

people touch her and warm
people abuse her and blister
with hair as soft as silk
but hands as rough as granite

she smells of honey and jasmine in spring
but tastes of rusty iron and lemons
her body is a wonderland
but her heart is hell in an ***** form

a voice as soft as fleece
but a scream as sharp as a blade
many fight for her
many fight against her

she is a shooting star
and a fallen angel
satan loves her
gods envy her

you won't learn her name
or her heart
but you’ll learn her history
and the list of names she broke before you
Jade Sep 2018
The countenance of her throne
epitomizes the state of her soul,
and this countenance I shall describe
but only to who may tolerate the details
of its most uncanny existence.

A clique of stallions
gallop about in a nauseating blur,
their red eyes glowering under
the amber light descending from
an ominous sliver of moon,
its mere presence prompting on
the inversion of the stars
and the curled screeches of
the morbid beasts
whose fur hangs darker than
the trembling eye of Hell.

Atop one lacerated saddle
rides Her Majesty--
The Queen of the Circus,
deranged like the specimen
she keeps in her company.
And,
with every cacophonic rise
of the carousel,
she howls,
her ******* cries as primal as
the stallions' untamed whinnies.

She bites her lip until
she can taste blood
(and ***),
throws her hands to her temples
in ****** wistfulness--
pale limbs encompass teased hair
where decomposing acorns
(rotten kisses)
and bouquets of Nightshade
reside amongst the tangle
of Medusa-Esque curls,
amongst large, brown eyes
that sparkle gold under
the cursed heavens
which have been simultaneously
pleasured and scandalized
by the sight of her bare *******
clinging to sheer leotard,
by the sight of her body swaying
round the rusted poles that
have sunk themselves into the horses' skulls
like a ring sinks round
a glass bottle
or a lover's finger.  

Of course, Her Royal Darkness
is more than just a Circus Queen.
She, indeed, entertains
a grand variety of morbid hobbies;

She is a Fire Eater
{spitters are quitters};

Grave Digger
{she dances the Charleston atop
treasure chests of bones and
bones with carnival mobsters};

Crystal Ball Prodigy
{reading palm | l|i|n|e|s | like
p
o
e
t
r
y};

Ring Mistress
{**** or ****,
purr or bite--
what shall it be?};

Acrobat
{knees perched above shoulders,
a man's mouth between her legs};

Ventriloquist
{"I'll steal your breath away, darling."}


Why yes!

She is a Jaqueline of all trades.

"Pick a card! Any Card! ..."

"Is this your card? ..."

A heart is drawn,
cleaved between her teeth,
each pulse of vein
a magnificent drum beat
against her tongue.
With the blood of her prey--
juices as thickly sweet
as candy floss--
she marks her territory,
parades her ****--
a pink handprint
smeared across the hide
of each stallion.

"What dizzying artistry...
how lovely--
how...insane,"
she laughs,
each high pitched giggle
a homage to the maddening  musings
of her soul
(and her throne.)
Jade Jul 2018
I am the prodigal daughter
of Hestia--
Goddess of hearth,
warmth,
embers that do not fade,
for they glow as softly
as lightning bugs.

But this time,
I will not be returning home.

Don't you see?

I've burned it down already.

Perhaps there shall exist no redemption
for my pyromanic sins.

They could not save
Sylvia Plath
as she ****** her head into the oven,
carbon monoxide stealing away
her last strands of breath.

(Sadness climbs up my throat in
stalagmites of flame,
rises from the chasm of my soul like bile,
like a phoenix reborn.)

They could not save
Joan of Arc,
whose flesh screamed out among
the ringlets of fire
and threads of cinder
that consumed it
so mercilessly.

(No, I am not a witch--
just a demi-goddess,
just a dangerous woman
But, unlike Joan of Arc,
I am no Saint either.)

They could not save Pompeii
whose inhabitants lay
victimized
asphyxiated
stolen
by the magma regurgitated by
the Almighty Vesuvius

(I cannot decide who I am
more similar to--
the inhabitants of Pompeii,
or the lava itself)

Perhaps then,
there is no saving a woman like me--
a woman forged from brimstone,
Hell's very own Femme Fatale.

I wear lighter fluid
atop my collar bone like its fragrance;
braid singed ribbon into my hair,
its ends charred and
curling upwards like tendrils of smoke;
rouge my lips with gunpowder.

Kiss me and
bite the bullet, darling--
make love to me
and you will combust.

But oh!

How these men will  bite their lip
at the thought of
******* me,
of dipping their fingertips
into the molten pools
that dwell between my thighs
similar to the way
a mere girl
(I, 16 years old)
is fascinated by the prospect
of baptizing her own melancholic
hands in candle wax.

(Who's the real ******* here, Baby?


Sincerely,
your Filthy Pyrophilliac.)


I am a
shadow charmer,
arsonist
the  Siren
of this Inferno
(wanted for her crimes).

Perhaps I was never the epitome of darkness,
perhaps I simply
lured the darkness towards me
(sorrow and the devil too.)

It's funny now that I think about it,
how the stars too reside in darkness,
how, when I wish upon them,
I am really only wishing on fire.

And where there is fire,
there is destruction;
it's no wonder all these dreams--
those of
love
magic
poetry--
have shuddered to ash.

Still, l I find myself making
snow angels in the ashes,
stick my tongue out,
let the remnants of desire
scorch my taste buds.

Here I lie
like an extinguished cigarette,
my use fulfilled and discarded.
But that's just fate,
stars ain't too fond
of nicotine, ya see,
ain't too fond of me
even though the very atoms
that comprise my being
are made of the stuff of galaxies.

But, oh, how these galaxies
have escaped my brooding grasp.

I do whatever it takes
to re-ignite what has been
lost--
chew on matchsticks,
let the splinters sear themselves
into my tongue;
lap at the iridescent gasoline puddles
that wade along
lonely streets corners;
howl beneath paper lanterns,
for both the sun and the moon
have forsaken me.

I do whatever it takes
to remember where I come from--
a state of limbo,
wherein I am simultaneously
angel (falling) |and| demon (the fallen)

What am I without flame?

Flame--
they could not save me from it,
from burning.

But perhaps the peril was never in burning;
perhaps it was in  burning out;
perhaps it was in disintegrating.
jadefbartlett.wixsite.com/tickledpurple
how would you address
me?
if i wear this tight black dress
as dark as the nights
i might
spend with you
and might not

would you pay for me
at the restaurant?
thinking that you have already
won my sympathy
by this act of courting
tradition
hoping that i'll kiss you
on the first date
in addition

or will you blame me for my
female magic spells
because this is what tells
you
that i am just another
pragmatic *****
in a dress that made
your breath
hitch

tricked you into this act
like it's not
a well-known fact
that i went out with you
just because you
wouldn't
leave me alone
and i couldn't
defend my own
without my make up
nice smiles and black dress on

so how will you address me
after that?
it's an old piece. well, not really, from last year, but i never posted it
so here it goes
Thomas Newlove Nov 2016
The girls wear lipstick - red or black. They wear it for themselves or at times so like dogs or war criminals they can mark their territory.
Madeline Kennell Jul 2016
she's a wild unconventional girl
her hair flies about her in wisps
she seems to be the one with bare feet everywhere
her friends call her a mystery and a tease
but not in the alluring curl-of-a-finger sort of way
in the way that she is deep
deep as her eyes are blue like the ocean
eyes that are so old, they tell stories of pain
buried beneath layers no one will ever see
including this femme fatale herself
she attracts those with the purest hearts
she doesn't even corrupt them, just makes them think too much
she's the other woman who is as beautiful as her photographs
she throws her head back when she laughs
she is familiar to everybody and yet always seems untouchable
if you touch her you are brave or a fool
she will always be that one
the one that got away but also you got away from
claire elisabeth Apr 2016
she's still coming-of-age,
like those bad films with those bad boys
trying to tell her secrets that aren't really secrets;
to lips that only turn out tricks.

they all don't dare forget her
because, when she leaves,
she's never gone too long.

she doesn't have time for quitting--
she's a dreamer with an "ever after" in sight.
she's a winner, she's a sinner.

get too close and, you won't regret her,
until she's left you for dead,
lying half-conscious;
gasping for more in the **a.m.
Oscar Mann Mar 2016
As I’m standing in the spotlight
I see look-alikes swiftly passing by
But none of them pull off
That red dress like you do

And I follow very thorough
Each and every one in my mind
But all roads lead to home
Where rooms are filled with memories

You’ve always had me caught
Between the fire and your vicious sensuality
Playful debauchery
I’d never would have thought
That everything would end up in this way

As you take me by the hand
And lead me down memory lane
A love in black and white
With hints of perfume in the air

You hold on to the leading role
Despite the fact that you’re long gone
But no-one would be able
To replace this femme fatale anyway

With passion and despair
You always lured me into petty ambiguity
Mental disparity
If only I had said
That life would stop being the same

— The End —