"ghostwriting" poems - Hello Poetry

The papers said she was a small-town girl from Massachusetts, an aspiring actress with the looks of Hedy Lamarr or Norma Shearer. The boys, they liked her minced walk, those black curls and tight black dresses, But it was the smile that won you: An aphrodisiac painted deep red. The picture didn’t do her justice. I examined her body on a cold slab on metal: Black curls, upstairs and down, matted with Dirt and blood. Body, cut clean in half. I bent over to get a look at those eyes: Death hadn’t yet stolen their blue. Folks say she didn’t care for school, but studied Movies religiously. She was determined to be known by the world—one day, With bags and ambitions, she fled To California. Reporters called her a vagabond amongst Other Lost Angels; no permanent address, though her mother received letters every week. When the cops brought her in to identify the body, I pardoned the girl’s condition; I had not yet Stitched up the sides of her mouth. I hear the leeches got to the daughter first, Calling up the poor mother With some cockamamie story that her Little Betty had won a beauty contest. The mother answered their questions proudly, Never the wiser, never know she was Ghostwriting her own daughter’s obituary. Betty’s pretty picture was soon plastered across Headlines and the evening news: I could still hear the mother’s shrill screams From a few hours before. I had kept the girl’s Severed body draped, to give her Some dignity, but I couldn’t hide her Glasgow smile.

0

Jul 14, 2010

Jul 14, 2010 at 6:32 PM UTC

jessy-pryde

The Mortician

The papers said she was a small-town girl from Massachusetts, an aspiring actress with the looks of Hedy Lamarr or Norma Shearer. The boys, they liked her minced walk, those black curls and tight black dresses, But it was the smile that won you: An aphrodisiac painted deep red. The picture didn’t do her justice. I examined her body on a cold slab on metal: Black curls, upstairs and down, matted with Dirt and blood. Body, cut clean in half. I bent over to get a look at those eyes: Death hadn’t yet stolen their blue. Folks say she didn’t care for school, but studied Movies religiously. She was determined to be known by the world—one day, With bags and ambitions, she fled To California. Reporters called her a vagabond amongst Other Lost Angels; no permanent address, though her mother received letters every week. When the cops brought her in to identify the body, I pardoned the girl’s condition; I had not yet Stitched up the sides of her mouth. I hear the leeches got to the daughter first, Calling up the poor mother With some cockamamie story that her Little Betty had won a beauty contest. The mother answered their questions proudly, Never the wiser, never know she was Ghostwriting her own daughter’s obituary. Betty’s pretty picture was soon plastered across Headlines and the evening news: I could still hear the mother’s shrill screams From a few hours before. I had kept the girl’s Severed body draped, to give her Some dignity, but I couldn’t hide her Glasgow smile.

37

being one for a long time now. My days used to start with a joint, a Charminar and a corn roast with lemon and salt. When I was rotten, ridden and worn out, Other people’s dreams, heaves and hushes seemed the best to experiment on, If not for the petty papers called money, I’d continue to rot, ride and wear. Being a ghost ain’t so bad, At least it has pushed me to feel elated That a degenerating section is following the echoes of my generic past. That if not in my name, The word sing the same lull. It has been good that now my day starts with a joint, a Charminar, a corn roast with lemon and salt, Beer mug full of white pumpkin and Chiku in Milk and fresh cream, And, the Chapter 1 of a new book. I just, like it I guess, not just to buy the mixer, white pumpkin and Chiku in milk and Fresh cream, but for the *** nicotine and the new rush to blow Or howl into, as well. I just like that it has pushed me to soar at my own level of dreaming real in my name. That someday soon, My dreams will be mine. And yours, Will be, Yours.

0

Feb 22, 2015

Feb 22, 2015 at 12:56 AM UTC

ceida-uilyc

Something about ghostwriting,

being one for a long time now. My days used to start with a joint, a Charminar and a corn roast with lemon and salt. When I was rotten, ridden and worn out, Other people’s dreams, heaves and hushes seemed the best to experiment on, If not for the petty papers called money, I’d continue to rot, ride and wear. Being a ghost ain’t so bad, At least it has pushed me to feel elated That a degenerating section is following the echoes of my generic past. That if not in my name, The word sing the same lull. It has been good that now my day starts with a joint, a Charminar, a corn roast with lemon and salt, Beer mug full of white pumpkin and Chiku in Milk and fresh cream, And, the Chapter 1 of a new book. I just, like it I guess, not just to buy the mixer, white pumpkin and Chiku in milk and Fresh cream, but for the *** nicotine and the new rush to blow Or howl into, as well. I just like that it has pushed me to soar at my own level of dreaming real in my name. That someday soon, My dreams will be mine. And yours, Will be, Yours.

21

If you can't find Yourself In those lines It's a lie Here, you survive As reflection Being A story

0

Apr 29, 2019

Apr 29, 2019 at 2:29 AM UTC

mystic-ink-plus

Ghostwriting

If you can't find Yourself In those lines It's a lie Here, you survive As reflection Being A story

8