"doxy" 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.
Nov 3, 2016
Nov 3, 2016 at 2:44 PM UTC
there is cotton in my mouth.
my fingers become tweezers, plucking, yanking, culling;
but there is still cotton in my mouth.
it reminds me of the time the spooky man from the shadows called me sugar
and then called me over like I was a cheap doxy.
avoiding him was obvious, but then dodging him became obvious and
the moment I felt ***** hands brush my left hip,
I knew I wasn’t safe anymore.
there was cotton in my mouth.
fragile like a pretty doe with a wounded hind leg,
I could not scream or attack; for there was jelly in my bones too.
but tonight, there is cotton in my mouth, again,
for different reasons; though, the same.
fear.
and while there is no bête noire with a knife
clutching onto my left hip, calling me sugar;
there is this certain bête noire I had neglected,
to discover radiant lights dancing above
and rich, resplendent tickles and tingles coming through my heartbeats.
I found a black spot; a hole or tear; rip in the curtain; stain on the carpet.
a darkness, a moon gone missing; a reversion to autopilot; comatose, asleep.
there is cotton in my mouth and my fingers still
cull the plush barrier; but it grows like a monster
and I have nothing more to say anyway.
Aug 30, 2013
Aug 30, 2013 at 5:22 AM UTC
Darkness, hides a shallow shadow.
Hiding from bright light.
The shadow moves slowly almost
hallowly along the narrow paths.
Head bent in friarly supplication, but no
kindness or peace follows this hollow shadow,
the shadow follows a dim tallow light
candle flame dim, he knocks at the door
13 Miller's Court, as far from a court could be,
he enters the room, a grate, a kettle, a bed, a settle
a painted doxy, a Catholic cross.
He takes these things in along with the broken pane of glass
the pane of glass will not be the last pain, 13 Miller's Court
will see tonight.
Apr 25, 2014
Apr 25, 2014 at 6:14 PM UTC
Rubayiat Al Thurab (Verses of the Dust) – 32
BismillahIr RahmanIr Raheem
The mighty king is always been a slave,
And the Dearly Queen is always be doxy’
In their private chamber!
Nor the Royalty or Nobility matters,
When its comes to their unquenchable thirst!
Allah Khair….. Khairul Rabul Alameen Yah Arrahmanur Yah Raheem
Ummah Thurab – Badshah Khan.
©UT-BK 2019
Feb 9, 2019
Feb 9, 2019 at 3:29 AM UTC
just imagine
seeing the water jettison into the sky,
the spray bursting off clouds
mist glistening through air as colors drip between droplets
the base of the water-rise acting in place of the precipice of a water-fall
just before liquid jewels ascend towards the empyreal
and separate into a thousand small gems, each with their own color, their own purpose
to the surrounding Vleiroos at the summit
But We don't rely on water
we grow and bend and ebb and flow with the water rising past us
But we cannot rely upon it
it does not char and burn, nor crackle and conflagrate like our lover does
he is the one who burns us up and blows us apart and turns us from ashes to dust to doxy and expiry all through accouchement
blessed be the fruit
of the vleiroos in the winter
and blessed be the water
given to the vleiroos in spring
and blessed be the fire
that carries the vleiroos through pullulation
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 7:00 PM UTC
A yellow pill, and then into
The tender hold of Morpheus,
Surrendered to the warm embrace
Of things seen and unseen.
Under white sheets, and then amongst
The harlequins and Freudians,
The rampancy and innocence
Of false narcotic dreams.
Amongst the sailors at the dock,
Or naked in the thoroughfare,
Gathering to watch the lions
Stalk adjoining streets.
To speak in tongues, and find it well,
To call a rabbit 'Marchioness',
To draw a sword against the fray
Of marauding balloons.
Vanity but tossed aside,
A ghost with no reflected face
Walks through a foreign city
Where the streets do not have names.
In Port-Au-Prince that never was,
Truth wears a past love as a mask,
And speaks in riddles, strumming softly
On an old guitar.
One last caress, the god retreats,
Warm sun peeks through the lush blue curtains,
Subject wakes alone, the potion
Sifting through her veins.
Dec 31, 2017
Dec 31, 2017 at 8:27 PM UTC