"hayworth" poems
Jitterbug to the beat of amnesia
A blood-red head
Dreams of Rita Hayworth, blood-money and blue keys
Landing the lead role, your face in magazines
Diamonds and pearls painted neon pink
A diner with a monster behind the kitchen sink
Look into the mirror and you see that it’s you
Walk into the bright lights of an angel city
Find a room, relax, and look pretty
The dream is broken by a phone call
Snap back to reality and begin to fall
But before you pull the trigger
Watch the box open
And let it remind you of your ***** motives
Oct 3, 2013
Oct 3, 2013 at 3:15 PM UTC
Desires vs. Reality
4/14/2014
Things are starting to look up a bit.
Or rather, I'm starting to look up a bit.
Things are still bad.
There's no changing that.
But I'm beginning to notice that not all the world is filled with such chaos.
I mean, I've always believed that there was good out there.
But I suppose I've never truly believed that there was good here.
In this town.
In these walls.
In me.
However, now I see that I've got potential.
But that's it, for now.
Potential.
I want, so badly, to be able to paint like Millais.
I want, so badly, to write like Sylvia Plath.
I want, so badly, to explore, and be ever so determined and inspired, as Darwin.
I want, so badly, to dazzle and dance across the screen, like Hayworth and Astaire.
But, alas, I can do none of these things.
I am just a girl. Nothing special. Least not to anyone else.
I cannot be what I long to be, and it breaks my heart.
I cannot paint, or dance, or sing-
but I can breathe!
and live!
and write!
Though maybe no good at all, by God, I will write!
For nothing stirs my soul like the dragging of my pen across the page.
And by God, nothing stirs my soul like the heat of those stage lights, and fifty eyes on upon me.
I may not be who I dream to be, but ****** I will continue to be until the stars pluck me from the Earth and dance with me.
Until my feet are lifted off the Earth, and I'm carried on clouds to Jupiter.
Or Venus.
Or Saturn.
And there, I shall sing with Cobain and Strummer!
And I shall laugh with Monroe and Hepburn!
And I shall write with Bukowski and Thompson!
And I shall dance with Charisse and Gene Kelly!
And I shall dine with a thousand queens, and lay in the silkiest of sheets!
But until then, I shall simply live.
I shall live a life devoted to words, and I promise to write whenever inspired, and dance whenever music plays, and sing, as loudly as I please, simply because I can.
And I promise to never promptly believe unknown truths.
And I promise to be kind to the universe.
And lastly, I promise to live,
and breathe,
and be,
because,
well,
the universe does indeed have plans for me.
Copyright © 2014 Scarlet Van Allen
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 1:12 AM UTC
In this moment before birth,
I am turning,
a tiny mass of flesh/bones
struggling toward the light,
my slippery cord
unra v e l i n g ,
my head a mess of milk white fuzz
that pushes down and through,
my wrinkled eyes sealed,
arms fingers legs
rubbery red wet.
My mother's family waits outside,
a Greek chorus drinking black coffee,
relieved that the labor is over.
Someone marks the time:
one-twenty-three-a-m,
and my father, half-drunk,
plays the guitar in a nightclub
somewhere in South Philly.
He does not even know,
as his callous young fingers
interpret "Stardust,"
that his first son
has been born.
Someone gives him the news,
buys him a drink,
while my mother,
beautiful serene sedated,
smiling like Rita Hayworth
in a pinup picture,
cradles me with nervous sighs.
She is tended now
by hospital people
who daydream about loved ones,
fearful and faraway,
points on a fiery map.
But I am just another baby
in an era when babies
are mass produced
like munitions.
I was conceived sometime
in the dawn of a new year,
the result of two militant lovers
making up
while the rest of the world
lusted for the blood of boys
born twenty years before...
a war baby
who brings no peace.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
Things are starting to look up a bit.
Or rather,
I'm,
starting to look up a bit.
Things are still bad,
there's no changing that.
But I'm beginning to realize that not all the world is filled with such chaos.
I mean,
I suppose I've always believed that there was good out there.
But I've never truly believed that there was good here.
In this town,
in these walls,
in me.
However,
now I see that I've got potential.
But that's it.
For now.
Potential.
I just,
I want,
so badly,
to paint like Millais.
I want,
so badly,
to write like Sylvia Plath.
I want,
so badly,
to be ever so determined and inspired as Darwin.
I want,
so badly,
to sing and dance across the stage like Hayworth and Astaire.
But alas,
I can do none of those things.
I am just a girl.
Nothing special.
Least not to anyone else.
I cannot paint,
or dance,
or sing.
But I can live,
and breathe,
and write!
Though maybe no good at all,
by God,
I will write.
For nothing stirs my soul like the dragging of my pen across the page.
And by God nothing stirs my soul like the heat of those stage lights,
and 50 eyes upon me.
I may not be who I dream to be,
but ******
I will continue to be,
until the stars pluck me from this Earth and dance with me.
Until my feet are lifted off the ground,
and I'm carried on clouds to Jupiter,
or Venus,
or Saturn.
And there,
there,
I shall sing with Cobain and Strummer.
And I shall laugh with Monroe and Hepburn.
And I shall write with Bukowski and Thompson.
And I shall dance with Charisse and Gene Kelly.
And I shall dine with a thousand queens,
and lay in the silkiest of sheets!
But until then,
I shall simply live.
I shall live a life devoted to words,
and I promise to write whenever inspired,
and dance whenever music plays,
and sing as loudly as I please,
simply because I can.
And I promise to be kind to the universe,
and I promise to never promptly believe unknown truths.
And above all,
I promise to live.
And breathe.
And be.
Because,
well.
The universe does indeed have plans for me.
© 2014 Rembrin Hawke
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
I gave her thornless roses,
thinking there is space still for something
between those ageless hands.
Very nice, sir.
Never dear, never darling, never precious—
Such old words, she says.
She means: like lungs and gasoline,
we just don’t need them anymore.
But I get my smile.
Always do.
Measured, weighed, tested, and yet:
Brief eclipse, splash of night.
The model was a fresh Rita Hayworth, 1939.
Yes, very nice. Only, tell me, sir…
Do you remember?
When the world was cruel?
Later, when there is time,
I swear to start again.
I have had dreams of honeyed girls
and an end to fearing silence.
What is it
that you want from me?
Oh,
wild things.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 8:26 AM UTC
If I had been around in '41
I feel I would have mattered more
Made a handful less mistakes
And fought for lives on foreign shores
I would have championed for freedoms
For colors beyond my own skin
To speak and worship freely
To be free from the fears within
I would watch my innocence crumble
At Bette Davis and those starlit eyes
How Rita Hayworth would corrupt me
With legs made to victimize
The day I'd enlist to serve my country
How scared my mother would be
Sitting in her morning chair all evening
Pretending there were no tears to see
Maybe my father would actually notice
A young man that needed his time
A boy that needed a little shove
To dream bigger than the painted lines
I would have worked til' my fingers bled
To see Joltin' Joe hit safe in 56
To witness the magic of Beantown
And Teddy Ballgame getting in his licks
I can only imagine my heartbeat
Holding her hand in the freezing rain
Knowing tomorrow, I'd be off to Hell
Knowing I may never see her face again
I would've taken the A train with her
Just because Ella and Duke told us to
Danced her up and down Sugar Hill
Til' there was only one thing left to do
We would've driven a coupe by starlight
Til' we were running only on dreams
Break into a farm at the edge of town
And lay silent til' roosters screamed
I would have left my fedora in the backseat
Kissed her lips and swallowed my doubt
Waved from a train headed for Carolina
Feeling knots I'd only read about
Jul 9, 2016
Jul 9, 2016 at 8:06 AM UTC