"burlesque" poems
Muted, muffled, dull thud on concrete,
Staggered, drunken, half conscious nobody,
Starved, seeking, worried about payments,
**** in hand, knocking on the wrong doors,
Fire and brimstone stoked in the belly,
Mad, strange, appetizing burlesque eyes,
Obnoxious smacking and licking of parched lips,
Rolling on half rationed legs,
Quiet, sullen, mournful footsteps,
Presently placed awkwardly one in front of the other,
Memory serves correctly, destitute, reprise,
Thunderclaps and crashing roars,
Almost forgotten, with great relief,
Soon, very soon, to be lost forever,
Candlelight, sobbing vigils, no power,
Nail, Nail, Nail,
Praise in the box, graffiti walled,
Like a bathroom stall, just as ******
Docile dissolving vessels,
Brought to the commonplace dropoff,
Settled down and greatly relieved.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 11:38 PM UTC
a black bat
hangs upside down
digesting a fly
his face almost human
a flying Frankenstein
he excretes
puddles of guano
like miniature buttered popcorn
a dark and wavy goulash
gods gift
to beetles and worms
dizzied overheated men look on
to an uproarious variety hour
of song and a high heeled kicks
inspiring
a tempest of throbbing
whisky drenched
folded ***** and cash
trouser trout fish,
undulant
sexed up
tape worms for love
pulse the night
egging on bunny **** pom poms
devout finger puppets of Eros
for
shimmering ****** lipstick twilled vibratos
sequined tassel spinning areolas
and lavish come **** me dance girls
bring down the house in flames
making hearts apostate
clamoring
and melt men like steaming everglades
the bat
hangs from the chandelier
licks his black lips
and looks on to panorama of hieroglyphics
hearing music
a thunderous nonsense
witnessing visions
of
flies, tasty white winged moths
and the thrill of screams
while biting the head off of another bat
in a claret stained red velvet cabaret
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 5:09 PM UTC
Fatima Latima
I had wished I had no gift of sight
That the worst I could endure is hear you speak
And not snapshot the footfall of your gradation
You may not be a thief
Nor **** daughter of the dayspring
But definitely my heart you stole
I speak of the daughter of Arabia
Aesthetically, she rocks
The queen of the pilgrim sands
And aeonian desert stones
Beyond the hijab
Artistically knead with consummate craft
Like the relics of Mecca
Blest by the prophet’s bones
The blessed
I see torches
Beaming with intelligence
Within those mascaras
Exquisitely trimmed and vibrant
A lulu class botany
She fixes a searching gaze
As she saunters close
And the stride and tread
Beats a drum entrancing
Soothed in her solacing spell
I give in, to her lullaby
She halts her perambulation
Stands magniloquent and stupefy
Like some pop diva magazine pose
Or Victorian secret shot
A tactical derangement of her gluteals
As she rests her palm in its cleft
I feel contractions, my dartos muscles
The blew of summertime
Gently beats her exceptional form
Her belt submerge her thigh crevice
Cleft by the sundered rift of fleshy fat
Built by the dainties and delicacies
Seasoned by the finest Arabian chef
As her silken dress slithers and gowns
Under the breeze bulging and blooming
Like a rose blossom or sunflower fore
As she bends down
To assuage the burlesque
The sun specula lilts her sensational
Her smile apologetic bids me stillness
I am caught staring
Guzzling down her scent and
Feasting on empty imaginations
Of What If that accentuate the mind and
Speed a hormone
And I pray I sin no more
Next time we meet and I see her again
For I am but a writer
Learning to use my pen and paper
And hope you but forgive
My linguistic impotence
When I make my confession
Employing too plain a language
When I say thus;
Her smile is classical
Her walk magical
Her beauty celestial
Her stride sensational
Her religion ethical
Her character spotless
And that leaves me breathless
And forgive if I step on broken toe
And try speak of the unspoken
Her ****** is sacred
Her being a type that dresses up
In the milliards of brutes dressing down
And shamelessly style it fashion
I must see a priest
One confession I ought to utter
And even vociferate abroad
For once I had fallen in love
With an Arabian Beautie
A ****** of Mecca.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 9:12 AM UTC
Dear sweet filthy world,
Photographs can lie,
so put away forbidden playthings,
that's how you got killed before.
Why, oh why,
can't an ordinary stand up
with the nefarious gods
on the second floor?
For the other end of the telescope
is leaning toward science fiction,
and this love from a cold land,
this sad burlesque,
is a bottle of smoke
on the deep dead blue,
one watt above darkness.
Jul 6, 2022
Jul 6, 2022 at 10:49 AM UTC
"Turn back the pages of history,
and see the men who have shaped the destiny of the world. Security was never theirs,
but they lived rather than existed,"
said Hunter S. Thompson
at age 17,
before he became The Duke,
and shaved off a leg in Doonsbury cartoons,
before he rapped the sharp corner of his shot glass,
so too many times,
on the inch thick enamel,
of the Woody Creek Tavern bar top,
and waited until closing time
to begin blowing lines,
out of the divets he'd made.
The people clapping,
the moon attacking,
the red bone blood of America pumping past his eyes.
After he died, everyone there had a Hunter story:
Hunter shot his hot girl assistant in the *** by mistake,
but he felt like **** about it.
Hunter had a dozen red cheeked lasses he skied with,
but he never messed with them.
Hunter showed up in a Cadillac convertible packed with
strippers dressed burlesque.
But it was hard to tell just exactly what he was up to with
the strippers, the peacocks,
or anything else.
Alot of the stories had ****** implications,
but what they mostly implied
was he was cool about it.
He didn't write any of those stories.
Despite all evidence to the contrary he liked his privacy,
and what peace he found in rare quiet.
And he made **** sure they'd shoot his ashes
out of a ******* canon when he died.
The canon is still there.
So are the peacocks.
Apr 26, 2013
Apr 26, 2013 at 1:45 AM UTC
Baby-dolled eyes,
and glamor velvet
encircles
with a cruel femininity;
the darkest pin-up
of your
diamond-dazzled
dreams always takes
it up a notch!
It’s all burlesque
and whispers
when you come into her
world of mirrored
desire that
plays just behind
her lips;
that dances just behind
her rhinestone mask.
The vampiress of
merlot, cigarettes,
and lace
always remembers
her prey;
a black-widow’s
striptease, cold
and calculated.
Again, she delights
in the fact
that she has broken
another man
she invited
in to her ruthless
masquerade.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 1:05 PM UTC
Jamming jellyfish
Top-Me
((Giddy App Seahorse))
The horseradish on
my lap______
The jolly Jelly
Gefilte Fish
Little help from my friends
How we click the laptop
One dent to Deceive me
The Rock and Rolling
Stomach his smoke went
Like *** Cheese)
he leaves me
The spicy tongue map
Z-Top Zany Chilli Pepper____
your # tap dance tap
Italian top of
the cheese designer skirt
The outskirts of Naples
Her sweet dimples, please
The Islands of Sicily
So many Cheese forms
Terms of Endearment
Mama Mia Murano-Positano
Her lips of Romano Cheese
(To Top Me) Challenge me
Cheese doesn't mix
with cappuccino,
she's the Capri
Ala Denti
Cheese Wiz chair
Mediterranean Wines
Bear men doing low
sips of time
the grisly(Z) pour
The car smelled like
Flight (Top Me) Swiss air
Meet Dominique
How it went La Cirque
Anti Christ Devil Red-bed
cheese mystique
SOS to their notes
PS the junk car in
Midas the makeover
Make-up artist counter
Clinique
I could paint over your hood
Creamy mind put at ease
He's so displeased
New castle disease
Mingling social disease
She's so infectious
ZZ- Top me rock me
Eyes bloodshot you got me
And nevertheless
With twelve and V
V- Vamps tramps
and 14 karats
The French Lieutenant
Mistress Brie with heavy
bite teeth like garnets
Cher turning back time
The burlesque striptease
Come back little Sheba
Z Top Queen of Sheba
I know it's coming soon____?
All Tight claustrophobic
The tight squeeze
Him speaking
Mandarin Oranges
The British Colony
Unique Chinese languages
Her hills, San Francisco
Jack Nicholson
Comedy of China town
The American Women
Smile cheese at the Disco
The food Cantonese
style
Z muscles Hercules
Joan Rivers
Fashion Police
The Cheese of Portuguese
Its the meat market
With his nifty thrifty Neice
All Socrates
(Gromet and Cheese)
Those Brooklyn
workers
The Falcon Matese____*
More cheese Z-Top
Who could ever top
The string cheese
Silken strings became
to rest, I rest my cheese
What cheese fascinates you
Tell me?
Jun 8, 2018
Jun 8, 2018 at 9:12 AM UTC
(For S. A.)TO write one book in five years
or five books in one year,
to be the painter and the thing painted,
... where are we, bo?
Wait-get his number.
The barber shop handling is here
and the tweeds, the cheviot, the Scotch Mist,
and the flame orange scarf.
Yet there is more-he sleeps under bridges
with lonely crazy men; he sits in country
jails with bootleggers; he adopts the children
of broken-down burlesque actresses; he has
cried a heart of tears for Windy MacPherson's
father; he pencils wrists of lonely women.
Can a man sit at a desk in a skyscraper in Chicago
and be a harnessmaker in a corn town in Iowa
and feel the tall grass coming up in June
and the ache of the cottonwood trees
singing with the prairie wind?
2.1k
A pair of stays to bind in fashion,
Stiff bodice lift those ample *******
French sophistication and ***** south,
Linen lines taken from the robin's nests.
Once seen in times known to all Baroque,
Steel cages more true to the name,
Renaissance blushed at the very sight,
This hidden and blustering shame.
Georgian era was always that late,
Yet women united to sheer the skin,
Frills and cuffs were the new bloom,
The dowdy apron given to the bin.
Victorian, Edwardian seen a rise of empire,
When romance boasts the whale bone done,
Now scattered in all weddings and burlesque,
Dear Corset is set in memory to run and run.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 7:50 AM UTC
Handprints stain my heart.
They're yours.
I am plagued; comatose,
a ritualistic rebirth
I claw my way out by morning.
Steady, inescapable,
and raw, colorless thoughts
I wake, a hollow shell
a crescent.
Crumbs of my Eden remain
they linger as you linger
burlesque, a temptress
stepping softly.
I'll not let the words crawl across my lips
I'd rather let them form brief, violent hailstorms
than risk it all again.
Wrists heavenward,
breathless, I submit.
Oct 12, 2011
Oct 12, 2011 at 12:23 PM UTC
The fairground music played, under the palm trees
And the beggar running around having himself some fun
The sweet song serenade, it was our song to take
So we took it and we begun
Under the shadow of, the ancient Ferris wheel
Where teenage lovers locked lips and hands held tight
I hear the screaming of young love in the summer
Screaming promise you’ll always stay by my side
The gypsy danced, she was just magic
Then she fell to her knees
Her crimson dress, laced with yellow ribbon
Just a penny, for your thoughts if you will please
I see the magic, of the fairground, I see the lost lovers waiting to be found
I feel the passion of those soft kisses, and the fear of the old state ghost train in the fair ground
Maria came to me, I’d seen her in my dreams, her voice, was never what I thought
Let’s just stay right here, under the Ferris wheel and catch those lovers as they fall
We took a ride, through the house of mirrors and as I thought life’s never as it seems
Maria sang to me, her tongue tasted sweet, from the dungeons I hear the children scream
We took a walk, over the sandy streets, where the grains and the earth stuck to our feet
The boys in denim vests, shaved chests, I see the way they look at you Maria
I don't have the looks, but i can look at you with more passion than they do
I grab you by the hand, we run into the shadows of the travelers burlesque ball room
i saw Samantha in her, black laced corset, Little jimmy outside blasting music from his newly polished corvette
I see the way the other women look at me dear, but i'm just tasting paradise with Maria
I’m smiling, you were laughing, your teeth as white as the stars in the sky
Your sweet voice laying over the fairground song, was sweet enough to make a man cry
The juggler and hot dog stands, sit on the arid land, the rust gathers over the roller coaster
Me and Maria I think my dear we could just walk hand in hand through the fairground forever
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 5:22 AM UTC
Patchwork, these lightning strike scars
thundering and unkissed
as though in some sort of burlesque swing –
attractive enough to be fondled, still throbbing.
I do not have bandages,
I do have a gun, I do have a tongue
to slick each wound like an envelope I close
shipped cross-country and not to my postal code:
gave foreigners the tornado –
now, we have the flood. Their lungs must
be strong enough or I’ll need to patch them too.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 5:59 PM UTC
Willows shading
and lily pads pointing.
posing flowers.
Sunlit hues of blues
and sharp burlesque red bulbous scorpion tails,
in a cabaret bouncing between
the shallow pools edges.
Sliding where crickets hum aboard,
performing. A dive for frogs,
and under it all the mud
could be kicked,
Fish would frenzy,
Dancing in the dark boite.
Aug 25, 2018
Aug 25, 2018 at 1:04 PM UTC
Dancer
by Michael R. Burch
You will never change;
you range,
investing passion in the night,
waltzing through
a blinding blue,
immaculate and fabled light.
Do not despair
or wonder where
the others of your race have fled.
They left you here
to gin and beer
and won't return till you are bled
of fantasy
and piety,
of brewing passion like champagne,
of storming through
without a clue,
but finding answers fall like rain.
They left.
You laughed,
but now you sigh
for ages,
stages
slipping by.
You pause;
applause
is all you hear.
You dance,
askance,
as drunkards cheer.
Keywords/Tags: dancer, waltz, waltzing, applause, drink, drunkards, neon light, strobe, flash, flashing, crystal ball, chandelier, lap dancer, exotic dancer, stripper, peeler, strip, striptease artist, burlesque, Moulin Rogue, dance, passion, champagne, gin, beer
Apr 3, 2020
Apr 3, 2020 at 12:56 AM UTC
I try to measure the overwhelming depth of the ocean,
And with a sly deception shudder at my fantastic obsession.
The Me Within opens his wings, flies high in the sky,
Lovingly callous about the miles treaded by.
*
I weave around myself, an aura of hapless piety,
Adorn my helplessness with a cocoon of sincerity.
The Me Within emancipates – out of the golden cage,
To soar the mountains steep with an astounding rage.
*
I look at my past with guilt, remorse and sorrow,
And search outward for an excuse that I could easily borrow.
The Me Within looks ahead never to turn back,
His burlesque gestures mock at me for the pluck that I lack.
*
I live in a world of purity, of rituals, of rights and of wrongs,
Content with the legacy of my notes, happy with the tyranny of my songs.
The Me Within is mischievously charming, gamboling in between,
And I hear his whistle blowing, humming a tune so serene.
*
I count my days, count my time, and count my blessings, to win,
And relinquish the countless moments of joy, scared of committing a sin.
The Me Within is a careless lad, who happily loses with a smile,
And brandishes his joyful hat, every once in a while.
*
I wish I could be like him, and he’d live my life like me,
I’d paint the sky with freedom, and dive through the depth of the sea.
Reality shrieks yet again, with her deafening draconian din –
When he leaves me, and I leave him, I’d meet the Me Within…
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 6:28 PM UTC
Has democracy irretrievably gone to the dogs?
Every beast congregates here; coyotes to hogs!
Supposedly most selfless of acts
Cover up the worst and the inept.
Crocodile tears apart, they hanker only for populist tag!
Nov 2, 2018
Nov 2, 2018 at 8:48 AM UTC
“She who has infused every minute of my day,
Hastens through titillating my endorphins.
Absconded hiding within myself,
As blue crystals glaring teeter in the sea,
As we sanction the reticence of ardor,
While the sea eradicates its perennial effigy,
As infinite cascades eradicate beneath us,
As the water stride procures to the sandy shore,
Where the waves shatter on unsettled rocks,
As once again the clear light bursts as sun sets,
Enmeshed in a fabric of palpable vibrant colors,
Portrayed as that of a burlesque plumeria of infinites,
The plumeria burst of aureoles immortal love,
Unyielding its pedals as the devouring sea rotates,
Will ephemeral demise procure in the deep blue sea?
Over its blue pedaled face an astringent frown,
We have embarked on a promenade of love my dear,
I now stand before you no longer with emptiness,
Only perennial affection that you are mine and I yours,
In our Aureoles of Plumeria”
By AG 03/10/2018 ©
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 6:52 PM UTC
a stray row of marigolds
defied autumns call
straggled along a fence
leading to a gate
where a burlesque woman
spoke gently to a cow.
the brazen marigold patch
clung cleverly to the winds shadow
and stayed put
until sons in seeds matured
and laughing at the woman
fenced in by the cow
split its pods
and withered as winter clutched
the surrounding grass verge
and neatly stapled fence
posts at internals
as sturdy as the seasons
the seeds burrowed deep
and waited for spring to pull
the tender hearts from the earth
learned from its parents.
spring will have a bigger clutch
of marigolds this coming sunshine.
Author Notes
so is life. clinging desperately to the fateful fence, braving all distractions.
the young and restless will inherit the earth.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 10 days ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11582732-marigolds-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.nLO2q91g.dpuf
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 6:50 PM UTC
Self consumption & suspension
dance Tango.
Glee & bliss
perform synchronized ballet.
Ignorance & fragmentation
slouch through a Foxtrot.
Trust & disgust
mirror in pantomime.
Words & action
engage in seizure-like Jazz.
Amusement & confusion
amass in couple's Swing
Pride & pity
pound in Pogo
Compulsion & obligation
grind in obscene burlesque.
Desire gives Prudence a lap dance.
*Their red eyes meet, but never reach.
Their shaking hands and feet reach, but never touch.*
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 12:22 AM UTC
4 strong hands and 20 toes
2 Blue eyes and 1 cute nose
13 brown and golden hairs
6 toenail clippings on the stairs
15 kisses in the dark
1 oddly shaped burlesque birthmark
365 days of love
13 times push came to shove
3 white sweaters that turned pink
19 whiskers in the sink
8 hushed moments under stars
one too many you-shaped scars.
Jul 13, 2011
Jul 13, 2011 at 9:34 AM UTC
The suit in question
Is grey. Pin-striped white.
Double-breasted. Three piece.
Blue tie, grey hatching.
An absolute nightmare to change into.
I drop my jeans
In the monastery stall,
Shed my shoes.
Old friends.
The trousers, slacks,
Rise morning fog
And sleep in the stratus
Of my waist.
I really wonder how
The men of the then
Could have worn them.
So much taller.
So much grander.
So much straighter.
White shirt with
The butterfly tracks,
Make-up stains
From a billion ancestors.
Dead relatives that don’t
Respond to the call.
I take their places
Without a single
Crumb of guilt,
O feel the guilt.
The vest. Easy enough.
Yeast but grey and it
Rises horizontally.
I’ve just noticed pockets
Sewn into maddening teases.
The barest suggestion
Of an opening.
It holds like the bowl of the moon.
The coat. The great monarch.
Organizer with a clipboard
Ensuring the quality
Of a burlesque of silk.
So strange.
So other.
So queer.
In a minute or two, the
Hyperhydrosis.
It really is my only hope
Of describing my true temperature.
I will ignite in a biological
Soliloquy that can
Pronounce all those tricky
Thoughts I’ve given up
For the stage.
Gentle gravity,
Cruel crushing backhand.
Burst my complexion,
Steal my aqueous words.
Again, this suit.
How many Lomans,
Bankers, adjudicators,
Businessmen and Babbits
Have lived out their deaths
In you?
Brave rain cloud,
Where is your lining?
I feel the quip swelling
And project it to the back wall:
Only the costume knows true reincarnation.
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 1:21 PM UTC
_For as the curtain rises,
So too the curtain falls,
No accolades, no entourage,
No 'Brava!', no applause.
An unrehearsed performance,
By a monodramatist,
A solo show, a pantomime,
An improvised burlesque.
Critics stand in groups debating,
The value of my work,
They gossip in the aisles,
The playhouse now a kirk.
My eulogy their invention,
My obituary the prize,
The best review I've ever had,
A mix of humour and soft lies.
I have played the loving daughter,
The honest aunt *****
The independent sister,
The true and loyal friend.
The sympathetic neighbour,
I have played the errant niece,
The mentor, guide, and confidant,
The ***** and the tease.
In truth, I am a diva,
Living mostly in her head,
But this remains unmentioned,
In a tribute to the dead.
Once rose bouquets beribboned,
From the greatest and the good,
Now a solitary arrangement,
On a coffin made of wood.
For as the curtain rises,
So too the curtain falls,
No accolades, no entourage,
No garlands, no applause.
But wait, I see my error,
As indeed these things exist,
But not for me to comment on,
Nor as I would have wished.
For my aspect is fair frozen,
I cannot turn the page,
My performance has now ended,
And I have left the stage._
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 3:51 AM UTC
Following the path less traveled not
*** you must be frolecking Fool King
Energize Invigorate Assimilate Stimulate
Spermatozoon soldiers within veins burlesque uterine
De construct the artery leading the pineal gland
Conduct bypass surgery of the Amygdala Beast
Ache take over the Beat mind the creep off melting
His brain drained Kriss Kross naked leave faded in vain
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 11:27 AM UTC
While Jake was nursing his broken head, Byron was nursing his broken heart.The journey to the hospital was a silent and tense one."Why Jake?", Byron almost laughed at the sight of his friend as he turned to face him, blood all caked to his head, Jake was always a ***** when it came to physical pain. "She swore me to secrecy buddy, she was going to tell you when the cottage was finished. It was a fluke, i saw her at the hospital and she *had to tell me".
A sudden pang of guilt hit Byron, as he looked at the gaping wound on Jakes head. Now, every time he would see the scar, he would remember how it got there. Being a shrink at the hospital had its perks, enabling the two disshevelled men to bypass reception and straight to triage.Byron was beginning to wish he'd brought his laptop with him, he was so bored to the point where he actually contemplated going home."YES, at last", "Jesus bud we've only been here half an hour".
After much deliberation, Byron finally made it home. He headed straight for his laptop. A strange and curious thing to do. Still stained literally from blood sweat and tears. *Ping, a dozen messages on Beautiful Words. Some from his good friends on there,Vampyric, Jester, Lady Luck and, "Yes", Maiden."Dearest Phantom, its been a few days and i know you're uneasy, i can sense it somehow, i meant it when i said i was here for you, feel free to contact me on here, or by email.Kind regards, Maidenx" Byron found his thoughts wandering towards Holly, Maiden, such a sweet, girly name. He began to wonder what she looked like, blonde?, brunette maybe?.
He started writing, writing a poem, for Maiden, he found himself imagining her with pale skin, soft burlesque curves, and, red hair! Real fiery, Megan red, he could feel that little knot at the pit of his stomach, that age old electric shock, the one that felt so good, yet carried with it a sense of dread. A seed opening up, pupating slowly, like a butterfly, eventually becoming a million butterflies,...........
Feb 6, 2011
Feb 6, 2011 at 6:39 AM UTC