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"debrided" poems
Plumped rouge with pigment her lip fills to graze the ******** intent to disquiet the likes of de Sade autografted with ocular detachment should a Marquis wish to harness the song of the morning within a bandolier of Seine to ensnare any bustled Persephone gilted by discharge of ions into a ménage of torment through the Porte des Lions. Hers is the tincture of doxy caramelized and debrided of naivety, empowered by the eve of invention, swollen to curves and grounded in Paris. Illumination defies pervasion down to every gear and pulley she has hushed through mechanization and lulled by steam, swaging a cacophony of flickers encased in glass by the Lady’s watch, where every rivet of her plate glisters silken reverberation in cascade, elegant, caged, and towering, outspoken in silence, ever challenging the Champ de Mars. "Paris by Gaslight," written by Dionne Charlet, is the title poem to be featured in the upcoming steampunk anthology Paris by Gaslight, the third anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books. Look for the first two collections of poems and short stories set in Victorian Times, New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528). Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie.
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Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
dionne-charlet
Paris by Gaslight
Plumped rouge with pigment her lip fills to graze the ******** intent to disquiet the likes of de Sade autografted with ocular detachment should a Marquis wish to harness the song of the morning within a bandolier of Seine to ensnare any bustled Persephone gilted by discharge of ions into a ménage of torment through the Porte des Lions. Hers is the tincture of doxy caramelized and debrided of naivety, empowered by the eve of invention, swollen to curves and grounded in Paris. Illumination defies pervasion down to every gear and pulley she has hushed through mechanization and lulled by steam, swaging a cacophony of flickers encased in glass by the Lady’s watch, where every rivet of her plate glisters silken reverberation in cascade, elegant, caged, and towering, outspoken in silence, ever challenging the Champ de Mars. "Paris by Gaslight," written by Dionne Charlet, is the title poem to be featured in the upcoming steampunk anthology Paris by Gaslight, the third anthology in the By Gaslight Series from New Orleans small press Black Tome Books. Look for the first two collections of poems and short stories set in Victorian Times, New Orleans by Gaslight (ISBN 9780615801186) and Cairo by Gaslight (ISBN 9781516961528). Both collections feature poetry by Charlet, under the pseudonym Dionne Cherie.
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The news says: the scouring of the earth began today, so press your greasy fingers against the triple-pane window as you crave the heat of summer. When we peer fearfully around the curtain, we see the worms, a warning the ants carry off the pavement. There are holes punched out of the whole world, gaping, unmoving, unapologetic, wounds seeping into every thing on Earth. Even the people bleed, letting into and onto each other. I open my mouth to sing, and they dump the plasma in. To chew with no result (either spit or swallow) is the request. I try and pour the sorrow back out of me, but to do so is to look into the holes I must spill it into, their eyes shining back through mine. It is endemic seasonally, seemingly to every season, so I seek an end, seemingly endlessly. In the morning I wake up rotten, and by the evening I have been debrided. Then the news comes in again; I must start the search anew.
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Sep 12, 2022
Sep 12, 2022 at 7:24 PM UTC
carlisle
hard not to feel this way when the sun has fallen out of the sky
The news says: the scouring of the earth began today, so press your greasy fingers against the triple-pane window as you crave the heat of summer. When we peer fearfully around the curtain, we see the worms, a warning the ants carry off the pavement. There are holes punched out of the whole world, gaping, unmoving, unapologetic, wounds seeping into every thing on Earth. Even the people bleed, letting into and onto each other. I open my mouth to sing, and they dump the plasma in. To chew with no result (either spit or swallow) is the request. I try and pour the sorrow back out of me, but to do so is to look into the holes I must spill it into, their eyes shining back through mine. It is endemic seasonally, seemingly to every season, so I seek an end, seemingly endlessly. In the morning I wake up rotten, and by the evening I have been debrided. Then the news comes in again; I must start the search anew.
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