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.

even in my youth, i did not dream of evil.

i could not fathom devils or demons
endlessly circling around a fiery pit -
painting their whispery words onto the pages
of other children's fairytales.

before i shut my weary eyes and closed the pages
of yet another gold gilted storybook, i thought to myself,

"i cannot imagine evil" -

not one dragon's white hot flames;
scorching the stone foundation of a dark tower
where a porcelain princess patiently awaits the end of a solitary life -
braiding and unbraiding golden hair until her fingers bleed.

"i cannot imagine evil" -

not one prince's frustration as
soft lips and slender hands are torn from him
and all that is left of his newfound beloved
is a sparkling slipper carressing the castle stairs
while the twelfth boom of a clock still lingers in the evening air.

no, i did not dream of evil in the twilight before sleep.

i dreamt of a delicately aging queen,
sick with worry when her dear stepdaughter did not return
from the twisted woods before the rising of a silvery moon.

i dreamt of her graceful arms outstretched for a gentle embrace
as the huntsman and the raven haired girl enter the glass hall,
hand-in-hand,

a basket of innocent ruby apples
swinging in time between them.

The mosquitoes supped histamine limpets into our puckered flesh
dew gilted grass entombed our feet in dappled domes
refracting the overhead fireworks
smears of whirling color
accented by smoke mote ghosts

I forgot to wear my contacts
my near-sightedness
makes you giggle nervously -
a hard full body ****** of a laugh
it arches your spine
pulling our hand-holding into an expansion
only the lining betwixt finger inlets
galvanized our pulse

well, that and your voltaic laugh
its flourishing timbre
resonant
reverberant pyrotechnic
thickly glazing aural canal

lascivious tomes penned themselves
densely
upon neural plane
dendrites imprinting chemical insignia
moment captured in impressionistic blurs

don't look, I
run with the wind, amok gilted hands
fast lacing,
i've only got six fingers saved for
dead kachinas, and I'm

wheeling rough
through the underbrush;
mixed Wiley yellow, willow
peering in on my schemes, paint
pallet dragging leaves
over the hills and holes of
my body's deepest grief

so brush up the tic
and wipe off the blood,
if i'm treading through this
horse hyde, then lift
up my red dress
and sift out the weeds
 
bramble ramble, ramble
soothsayer hanging bones from
his swollen empty gut-- I

got a rain-stick, talking-stick
Yellow Wampum floating, bagging
sick sweat, for Appaloosa, holy, holy

leave, god anger ugly,
golden painted leaves

and if i'm too swollen, and if you're too
sullen-- i've got a bag of névé rocks for you
so hitch up the tobacco and wait
for tomorrow

my deer running, hoof trotting, snow
blowing legs will be comin' soon.

Delicate whispers tiptoe across tightropes
My eyes flit between skies and
Crawling ivy, seeking so shyly,
Darling, won't you stare through me?
I can feel our branches entwining,
Heartstrings unwinding,
Curling like my toes in bed, but

Instead...

I am taken by beauty,
These curses of duty,
Forever spinning my head
It seems you could take me,
But I must be broken and
Mended, gentle and gilted,
It seems as though enough has been said

Burn To Turn
for a briefest, gilted
eternity, the trees
will burn not from
their crown
nor from their feet
and, despite the ice,
the sparkless space,
the cold steel
darts of insistent
slanting rains,
the trees will burn,
the trees will burn,
and all-at-once
the peripatetic sun,
it's whims having won,
will dance along
and share its breath
with everyone

I have died
    on the cities
        and moors.
Avenues great gold
    and
        Godly.
Where the antelope
    Walk
With eyes pointed
    Northerly
The seascape far and
    W   i   d   e.
Bright eyes and
Misty days
    None are left
        They've all turned olive green
As bees fly
    down
        wind
Whispering with gilted
Tongues
    Slithering

The Sea speckling waves, I -
Watched the seafoam stretched
Yonder - azure and proud -
Upon the sea cliff,
Standing tall peering down,
Waves crashing upon the
Seashore shivering cold.

Lost in poesy, alas I -
Peered down the air
Gelid, humming from within a
Gilted and melodic tune -
As thrice I looked back
Your sordid gaze a hazey
Interlude to the crimson tide.

Luscious lemons in your silky hair waving as you saunter down the gilted avenue. From my seat, all buckling unsturdy, your redlovely lips upon pearl face gaze my way. The old women on wooden tables kneading their Orecchiette with daughters all drawn and hasty. Brahmana passing by in tight little groups. Proverbs whispered from sealed lips. The Sun near the Gondolas passing en plein air. Pigeons splayed upon the etherized Sky all-atwitter with thought. And I see you passing through the marketsquare: afire with meadowsweet dress. The violins quivering a crescendo of Baroque notes as you turn a sorrowful glance, but, alas, it's lost in the crowd.

Before me lay a gilted silver box
With an engraving of a tiny red fox
And within this box, lay five others
Memories of childhood, and my mother
There was a small baby tooth
And a wish for the honest truth
A tiny little cuddly ted
And curiously lay a broken dolls head
Lastly lay a secret dream
Of a world, of strawberries, and cream
by Jemia

The Primrose picture

She painted her pretty picture with the palette of pastel pinks.. betwixt her fluttering eye lashes and fast, flickering blinks..such sweet scented primroses filled the evening air as her colourful canvas captured them there

Using her best bristled brushes she edged her detail in gilted gold..her special secret weapon to emphasize the bold.. then with a medium paint brush she gently dribbled dainty drops..carefully creating the perfect primrose tops
Striking yellow centers in a star shape design amidst those fushia pink petals she portrayed so fine

Passerby’s stopped and stared at her perfection of pièce de résistance and she blushed as she overheard whispers of praisal persistence.. but this young girl had a natural flaire like no other which she had luckily inherited from her talented Mother.. when her wonderful work was complete this primrose framed picture took pride and place on her Grandmas wall in her house on the street