"mcqueen" poems
Turquoise blues guitars
Laughing baby elephants (that paint)
Melodies singing lullabies to sleepy baby elephants
(tired from painting all day)
Blank canvases full of blackberries on the inside
The antidote to love
All the dotes that didn't get doted
And all the ones that did
Playing badminton in the backyard of Cupid's summer home in Manarola
The ruby that died to make Dorothy's slippers
And the shortest hair from the Lion's tail
Wine filled grapes
Water balloons filled from hot springs and melted mountain snow
Two spokes from Steve McQueen's "Great Escape" motorcycle
Three kisses from Ilsa Lund
And a smile from Sabrina Fairchild
Tom Robbins' typewriter (it's magic)
A flying dragon
A dragonfly (grounded for not doing her homework)
Jenny's phone number
The pillow that hit the floor at Cecilia's that afternoon
The third stair from the top of the Stairway to Heaven (best view)
One of the lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
And a grain of salt from the sea the other is swimming in
An olympic size pool full of melted crayons
A vile of sweat from the ever fleeing muse
A refrigerator the size of Rhode Island
Full of magnificent lines of magnetic poetry
Poetry (all of it)
The monster under the monster's bed
Every foul ball ever caught by any kid
Hammocks (any and every)
The cardboard boat that never stopped sailing down the gutter of the world
The secret to everything
(kept securely under the bed of the monster, under the monster's bed)
Santa's real address (you won't believe this)
The blue ink from the blueprints of Atlantis
Golf carts with no maximum speed
The energy dust left from dancing, hugging and smiling
Freshly climbed trees
A warehouse the size of Antarctica completely filled
Wall to wall with raw, unfiltered laughter
Beer
Everything that was left on the field
Passionate embraces and embracing a passion
Apology free, but full of forgiveness
The wild of the wilderness
The tame of the un-tame
Language
Intuition
Conception
First kisses, waves and winks
Goodbye hugs and thrown in kitchen sinks
Art
Music
Pain
Puddles that have been danced in under pouring rain
Empty film cans
Films on screens
All of these ingredients
Are what makes up
Dreams
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
he spends his time
rowing through the
rugged, blockaded channels
of my catharsis,
the bitter staccato
of ****** habit.
his love
can be as jagged
as gashes in an
Elvis Costello record
thrown against the wall--
the frayed words of the last love song
Billie Holiday ever uttered.
he is two
exclamation points lit on
fire, kerosene pumping through
tautly wound muscles and
caressing our funny bones with
sandpaper.
he is
dulcit woodwind melodies
and jilted viola strings,
epic poetry and grindhouse theaters,
McQueen gowns and thrift store bargains,
the kiss on the forehead
and the nudge for a *******
he is a double helix.
he is the beginning
and end of every sentence.
Sep 4, 2010
Sep 4, 2010 at 3:45 AM UTC
Nobody Knows McQueen
Why do mad men,
act so happy,
what do bad men,
feel so good,
nobody knows,
why,
do you have to lose the sanity,
to find,
the genius,
nobody knows,
why,
do the brightest lights,
cast,
the darkest shadows,
nobody knows,
can’t have the beach,
without the ocean and the sand,
can’t have bliss,
without the pain,
what a paradox we are,
us this Human Species,
all us actors just acting sans practice,
in deafening silence commiting acts of violence peacefully,
in this repulsively attractive romantically tragic,
dramatic sci-fi thriller comedic fantasy,
where we rarely do what we say,
even though we all say what we mean,
constantly on a conquest to find Plato’s Atlantis,
expressing ourselves through our art like Alexander McQueen,
which makes sense in a way since we’re all dressed up with nowhere to go,
and even though that may be so we still wear our hearts on our sleeves,
half peasant have emperor,
have invented have inventor,
half daughter/son half mother/father,
half created have creator,
only hope is that this sadness somehow leads to a happily ever after,
once gone,
only that odor lingers,
is it cologne or perfume,
no one knows or cares it’s 2018 it doesn’t matter,
nothing matters,
even though it feels like everything does,
or maybe everything matters,
and nothing feels like it does,
I don’t know,
and I don’t know if I care,
don’t have the answers,
and if I did I probably wouldn’t share,
or maybe I would,
and I’d do so through these words,
like a man stranded on an island with a universe full of knowledge,
sending these messages in these bottles as my parting gift to this world,
see we’re all on our way,
so have some fun before you go,
is there life after death,
maybe not maybe so nobody knows,
why do mad men,
act so happy,
what do bad men,
feel so good,
nobody knows…
∆ LaLux ∆
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 1:39 AM UTC
I am a thousand different things
I'm people, objects, nature, animal
I'm woman, man, girl, boy, child
toddler, baby, foetus
I'm all you could dream of (not) wanting
I'm all you wish you were (not)
I'm (your) anger, sadness, fear, regret
I'm (your) happiness, joy, hope, love
When I write, I'm a character
fiction, autobiographical, biographical
I'm lived, burned, broken, insane
I'm madness, virginal, loose, free
closeted, bi-curious, let's wait it out and see
I'm intrigue, a passer by,
I'm the observer, the observed,
voyeurism, peeping tom, negative film
Moss, McQueen, Klein
I'm art, symbolism, post-modernism,
I'm poetry; written and spoken
I'm the woman you read of; her
I'm the girl who made you cry
I'm full to the brim of (your) inspiration
I open doors to the past, then slam the door
in your bright doe eyes
I close doors to my future, and sneak back
through cracks in the floor,
just to get back
I laugh in your face, and burn holes
in skin at your absence
I kick dirt in my eye, then cry wolf
blinded,
I'm the severest of contradictions,
I say yes at no, no to yes,
I decide on impulse, and cry on cue
Beauty, romance, love, lust
poetry,
all the questions I am made of
I answer in the written word
mute,
You only know me,
(if of course you dare)
by reading my rhymes,
(non judgmental stance)
and loving me regardless,
(don't expect perfection)
If you're going down
the same road
start today,
face your demons,
be the contradiction.
© Sia Jane
--
*"So unimpressed but so in awe
Such a saint but such a *****
So self aware so full of ****
So indecisive so adamant
So rock and roll, so corporate suit
So **** ugly, so **** cute
So well-trained, so animal
So need your love, so **** you all"*
Robbie Williams - Come Undone
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC
This is a terrible romantic
and sadomasochistic narrative.
The artist's mind is clothed in fabrics.
Fashion is his vocabulary.
Grim-tales are often told with foreboding,
exacted further through sharp, perceiving lenses.
Collections of sharp silhouettes speak of
a masterful and sensitive touch.
A turbulence of emotions exploded in
delicate and mesmerising theatricals.
Taking delight in challenging popular notions,
Alexander left audience continually in a
lingering aftertaste of shock mixed with wonder.
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
Just found my
honest to god
vintage 1963
James Dean Ray Bans
in the garden where
I must have
dropped them
last summer.
Even as an old man
they make me feel
like Steve McQueen.
Now I can pretend
to be cool and smooth
again; but I doubt
my Lady will be fooled.
~mce
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
She came into her life
A mere stranger of coincidence
Alexander McQueen ivory silk tulle
Empire line gown.
All senses heightened;
She was waiting amidst
The exotic smell of burning
Candle wax.
The scent of a woman clinging
To lustful air, white roses ribboned
Thorns tinting porcelain skin.
She hears the patter, not dislike
A small child coming toward you.
All senses are broken; just a voice
So much power in the echo
Of words spoken with such
Fluidity.
**** he ******* knew that
She was awake, Louboutin steps
Scaring the devil itself; what sin.
Walking through flames,
Burning, hot coals; presence.
Ophelia approaches, a creature
Secure, arms wrapped tight
And smiles at her.
Ophelia speaks to her; lifting her arms
To wrap around her instead.
A gentle hand, to the thigh
A soft caress across silver scars.
The girl feels; inadequate
And yet, forgiven for all she has
Committed; sins of the flesh.
It was only now that, this goddess
Of desire, lust and eternity
Could mark a soul, for she was an
Angel, winged feathers a glow.
She reaches to the empty soul
Challenges her resoluteness
"What can I do to help?"
Eyes welling, the sound of a
Tear, akin to a pin drop
In silence.
In that silence, words formed
Like cloud patterns, shifting
Graceful elegance.
Nothing was heard, all was spoken.
Ophelia stole her heart,
The girl will always be attached
By symbolic resurrections
Of strength,
Spiritual
From
The heart and mind.
© Sia Jane
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 11:36 PM UTC
sinderella was a nickname
because i was the sinner
and unlike cinderella
i was not a charmer
i was the known kid of sin
doing bad to make a livin'
never the girl scrubbing floors
i was the girl looking for new drugs
keen to experiment with death
and the guy i fell in love with
i wasn't a princess in disguise
or a servant dressed in rags
i was the troublemaker
in her fishnets & leather
wearing less than a dress
even during winter nights
drinking whiskey to fill me
to keep me warm as i
walk in the big city
stiletto heels and dark make-up
with a cool NYC diamond jacket
swarovski crystal encrusted
with chanel nails
a mcqueen bag
with my drugs
& all that ****
a wallet for
my few dollar bills
even though i
get drinks for free
because i'm young
attractive, little
darlin' me
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 3:27 PM UTC
Have you seen my granny?
She shoots like Johnny Wayne,
Smokes cigarettes like Garbo,
Sings like Kelly in the rain.
She's doubtless at the movies
Watching Audrey zip 'round Rome,
And wishing she were young enough
To run away from home.
My nana laughs like Rita,
Plays chess like Steve McQueen,
She smoulders like her heroes do
Up on that silver screen.
Have you seen my granny?
She loves Bogart and Bacall,
And in her dreams forever
She is blonde and six-foot tall.
Nov 3, 2019
Nov 3, 2019 at 5:01 PM UTC
tar
smar
dar
car
vroom vroom
hit a broom
rip in peice
lightning mcqueen
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
There's a party going on upstairs,
your invited, to come and have a scare.
H.G. Wells, will meet you at the gate,
costumes required, hurry don't be late.
Vincent Price will be tonights D.J.
Halloween is his favorite Holiday.
He's spinning "Thriller", while dressed up as "Kiss".
Watching Claude Rains do the "Transylvania Twist".
Steve McQueen came dressed up as the "Blob",
he's serving up the zombie shish-ka-bobs.
Elsa Lanchester placed real bats within her hair.
While Marty Feldman keeps yelling "Frau Blucher".
At the stroke of the witching hour,
St. Peter amps up all the power.
A disco ball drops down from a cloud.
Out on the dance floor, forms a massive crowd.
Michael Jackson then leads them all in dance,
while Lon Chaney and Karloff take their chance,
to join the angels in harmony,
While "Monster Mash" is sang by Lugosi.
Even the Devil made it through the door.
He's the one sporting an Elvis pompadour.
So much fun is had by one and all,
at Heavens Annual Halloween Ball
Oct 26, 2011
Oct 26, 2011 at 6:37 PM UTC
I rearrange the shards of
Smiles and slivers of truth
That collide like broken waves
On the shores of my eyes
Like fragrant words of folly
As if to tickle the open ears
Like teardrops in a vase
And spokes that spin in wild wonder
Dance as if their lacing fingers
Draw magic from the dust
But I remember
In sane whispers drawl
I haven't lost that which holds the breath sacred
As rising tides of hidden lunar glow
Spark and fly from their embers
Our fear
In restless highs slide toes out from
Under the star shine
Curiously sweet yet sickening to swallow
Our tongues burned of what we could not speak clearly enough
For the stirring ashes we thought were as corpses
beat rhythms once again
And I couldn't hold you long enough
But still I released and hoped you would return
And you did
Carefully melodic at first
Yet hopelessly chaotic as we laid
-Cory James McQueen
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 10:04 AM UTC
There's a party going on upstairs,
your invited, to come and have a scare.
H.G. Wells, will meet you at the gate,
costumes required, hurry don't be late.
Vincent Price will be tonights D.J.
Halloween is his favorite Holiday.
He's spinning "Thriller", while dressed up as "Kiss".
Watching Claude Rains do the "Transylvania Twist".
Steve McQueen came dressed up as the "Blob",
he's serving up the zombie shish-ka-bobs.
Elsa Lanchester placed real bats within her hair.
While Marty Feldom keeps yelling "Frau Blucher".
At the stroke of the witching hour,
St. Peter amps up all the power.
A disco ball drops down from a cloud.
Out on the dance floor, forms a massive crowd.
Michael Jackson then leads them all in dance,
while Lon Chaney and Karloff take their chance,
to join the angels in harmony,
While "Monster Mash" is sang by Lugosi.
Even the Devil made it through the door.
He's the one sporting an Elvis pompadour.
So much fun is had by one and all,
at Heavens Annual Halloween Ball
Oct 29, 2010
Oct 29, 2010 at 5:12 PM UTC
I take my knowledge from architects, medieval painters and galore.
I walk along the stretch of times, Read the Canterbury Tales from folks of yore.
I've written literature in my own dialect, through the beautiful English language.
I find awe in the act of creation, new etymologies where old writers anguished.
My words: symphonies of the beloved and dead Beethoven; like the arias of Wagner.
I am the high priest, the new catholicicist propogandising as your Cardinal.
I am the spiritual technology, provided to the ailment of what we call society.
I am the new Ghandi, the Dalai Lama deservedly inspiring your piety.
I am the Luciferous angel of life, breathing heaven through the cesspool of Earth.
I am the post-modern Romeo and Juliet, Warhol's 15 minutes of fame and worth.
I am the Alexander Mcqueen, the metaphilosopher of fabric illusions.
I am the lyricist of society, speaking through the castrated eunychs.
I am Stephanie Myer, inspiration of vampiric genius to adolescent impressionables.
I am Jane Austen, author of new age thrillers such as The Secret and Lesbian Misérables
I am the eclipsing of twilight, the post-mortem autopsy of a rotting cadaver.
I am Heath Ledger and Michael Jackson, legends inspiring a race of sleeping pill grabbers.
I am the Blockbuster, the Titanic Avatar, $4.9 Billion to children in poverty.
I am Gangnam Style, 2.5 Billion viewers of the Palestinian Bombings.
I am modern philosophe, the birth giver of Socrates, Plato, Nietzsche, Derrida.
I am Steve Jobs, terrible father, tyrant and billionaire technological reliever.
I am God, the predeccesor and successor of all eternal life.
I am Satan, damnation and strife.
I am Tupac, rapper of gangster warfare. Inspirational to first world degenerates.
I am Oprah, most powerful black woman with white hillbilly aesthetics of Ellen Degeneres.
Thank you, to world's only true Genius.
Hail Kanye West, our one and only revered Yeezus.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
Things got hot,
Things got heavy.
I hit the spot
And broke the levee.
The water rushed
Onto my spread.
Her body flushed
And soaked my bed.
Jun 4, 2011
Jun 4, 2011 at 3:37 PM UTC
Once I was stuck in Acapulco
in the rainy season,
for I didn't check the weather for
that time of year
when in need of a
quick getaway
when it is the rainy season
down Acapulco way,
it rains for a season,
not a day
and the roads are
the rivers unmarked on any map
apparently I was not the only idiot
a hotel full of newly weds
with nothing to do after,
after doing what newly weds do,
they, these many couples
walked,
verily they cruised in D1
around in endless circles on the floor
around the newel post,
of the outdoor lobby,
jailed by the down pouring unceasing
like goldfish in a pond,
I fascinated watched,
expressionless, in motion constant,
speaking not a word to anyone,
even joined in for a splayed day ^
got the hell outta there,
went to Mexico City,
made me another
steve mcqueen quick getaway
had me a fine time there
over thirty yrs later,
the image of the
the fish pond of white humans
swimming in silent circles
still gives me
nightmares
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
Like the shadow stringed to Peter Pan's shoes, he is always there for her
Like the Piped Piper who saved the people of Hamelin from the plague, he keeps her safe
Like Miguel leaving El Dorado's gold for more adventures with Tulio, he always chooses her
Like Pacha who took care of Emperor Kuzco as a llama, he provides her needs
Yet like Lightning McQueen and Mater, Buzz and Woody, Dory and Marlin, Mike and Sully, they will always remain friends.
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
Louis Vuitton brown,
Chanel black,
Classic McQueen,
i'm surrounded by such luxuries.
If I lost it all,
i'd be alright,
I really don't need to be in the spotlight.
I hate this poem.
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 2:03 PM UTC
Venus-Intergalactico princess,
Why is Victoria keeping so many ******* secrets?
It's time to let the Gucci cats out of the Louis Vuitton iconic bag,
Sparkling Supermodel? can you walk with your hands swinging behind your back?
Legs up front!
Look left!
Look Right!
Turn around!
now you qualify for first class,
Venus-Intergalactico princess,
in your hologram eyes I see a glamorous savage,
Versace snakes to replace your long hair,
Chanel number 5 the breath you fill up in the air,
Your face made of prada is nothing but expensive art,
When you deeped your fingers into glitter and plunged right through my chest to pull out my leathered heart-
I saw an Angel with Cashmere Wings
wearing a glowing Alexander Mcqueen gown
In Jimmy Choo Shoes,
You looked like a queen with a gigantic crown.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 3:38 PM UTC
Free Will is a ***** and a half.
But ***** ain't free, he costs and costs, and jaws you, gnaws you, spits out your bones, retargets, redodges, zooms in, looms thin, steals a hat from a child outside a movie theater and vanishes around the corner, through the alley, under the chainlink where the filthy mutt from the movie dug his way to freedom Steve McQueen style.
But the dog's name is not ***** and she would prefer you call her a ***** then whistle. It doesn't make any difference to her what you call her, but she knows whistling your sexuality at strangers in the street is bad for your mental health, worse for your dignity.
She will stare you down, swipe left, steal your money from the begger, and brag She left you dead in the street next to the twin corpse of the ice cream man that won't stop ringing his bell.
If you are too lazy to make coffee in the morning the nightmares will follow you all day, headache throbbing like a hammer on memories like nails.
On the morning of the day little baby Jesus decided to ease up on the whipping you were at the Portuguese diner out by the highway on the toilet listening to the rain drops gather rhythm on the rooftop, thinking about the idea of mathematical randomness, wondering if perfect beats like Ringo Star or clocks exist in "nature." I mean not man made. You know what I mean.
Inventing Bukowski is also fun. He loved to write about his ***** "The best of the beer ***** hot, wet, steaming, and glorious ..." What a role model.
The thing with J. C. is he is just one of three people, none of whom yet exist.
Humanity is still basically crawling around in the forest waiting for the Aliens take the time to drop by and share a few tips. Maybe more than a few.
Apr 26, 2016
Apr 26, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
All I want for Christmas
is peace on earth
(well, at least in Amerika);
a black, velvet painting of Elvis
(the old, fat Elvis of course);
massive volcanic eruptions
along the Rim of Fire
with ensuing Tsunamis
for a bit of Yule excitement;
A Maserati (red, gently used);
health, happiness and peace of mind
for my friends and children;
a stuffed and mounted Cassowary
(but still safely caged);
a distance learning course
in Alchemy and White Magick;
continued success and mastery of
obscurity, poverty and poetry;
for all the men I served with
to be alive, thriving and happy;
for all the women I've loved
to remember me and smile;
for Steve McQueen to play me
in the upcoming movie of my life;
the usual end to world hunger
(more Kale for everyone!);
a bottle of pure testosterone,
tumescence and liver disease combined
(just once, Doc, I promise);
a routine, tropical winter for Pennsylvania;
release from the burden of time,
but not immediately;
to end all my dreams with laughter;
to meet and shake hands with Buddha;
and, of course, to see you again.
Think that's too much to ask?
It goes without saying
I have been very, very good
(just ask my loving, schizophrenic cat).
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 7:17 AM UTC
I’m off out down to town, I’m off out for the night
I’m dressed-up to the nines, oh what a lovely sight.
I’ve got my shiny shoes on, I’ll get in any place
I’ve got my brand-new suit on and my Durex just in case.
I’ve learnt a trendy dance this week I’m off down to the Ritz
I’ll spin and do the moon walk, might even try the splits.
I’ll pick me out a woman and pester her all night
I’ll tell her all about myself and set her heart a light.
Might by myself some bubbly, make them think I’m rich
All the girls will love me and the lads will all be sick.
I’ll wear my Rolex wrist watch and my golden belcher chain,
and my diamond studded cuff-links, might even take a cane.
I’ve been down to the barber’s, for a Kevin Keagan perm
I’ve been under the sunbed for a thirty minute burn.
I’ve plucked out all the hair, from my nose and my ears
I wear a leather G-string; got both ******* pierced.
I move like John Travolta, smile like Steve McQueen
there’s not one thing I’d alter I’m the perfect specimen.
I am a medical marvel, I am a bundle of fun
there’s no one else quite like me; I’m the special one.
The end
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
Only Steve McQueen is Clean
And He's not All That Clean at That
Apr 9, 2012
Apr 9, 2012 at 6:11 PM UTC