"pompadour" poems
473
I am ashamed—I hide—
What right have I—to be a Bride—
So late a Dowerless Girl—
Nowhere to hide my dazzled Face—
No one to teach me that new Grace—
Nor introduce—my Soul—
Me to adorn—How—tell—
Trinket—to make Me beautiful—
Fabrics of Cashmere—
Never a Gown of Dun—more—
Raiment instead—of Pompadour—
For Me—My soul—to wear—
Fingers—to frame my Round Hair
Oval—as Feudal Ladies wore—
Far Fashions—Fair—
Skill to hold my Brow like an Earl—
Plead—like a Whippoorwill—
Prove—like a Pearl—
Then, for Character—
Fashion My Spirit quaint—white—
Quick—like a Liquor—
Gay—like Light—
Bring Me my best Pride—
No more ashamed—
No more to hide—
Meek—let it be—too proud—for Pride—
Baptized—this Day—a Bride—
2.8k
Shoop, Shoop
***Shoe, *** ***
Shoop, Shoop
***Shoe, ***
The moment I laid eyes on you
I knew it was true love
You were sharing a root beer float with your friends
Down at the soda shop
I looked debonair in my Pompadour
You cute in your poodle skirt
I took out my comb to slick down the sides
As you smiled, giggled, and twirled
I asked if you'd like to go out
Just you and me on a date
I picked you up at seven o'clock
In my 56' Chevrolet
Your father gave me a stern look
Your mother a gleam in her eye
He asked where we were going
Why to church sir, I said with a smile
Shoop, Shoop
***Shoe, *** ***
Shoop, Shoop
***Shoe, ***
I took you to the drive in
Bobs Burgers and Late Night Shakes
Afterwards we both went dancing
At the Hop just down the street
You had my heart all in a flutter
As we slowed danced all night
It was then I knew for certain
That I would make you my lovely wife
I got you home way past your curfew
Your dads silhouette by the front door
You said I can't go back to that
I pressed the peddle to the floor
So here we are these many years later
Me as your husband you as my wife
With our grand kids playing about our feet
Thinking back to that fateful night
Shoop, Shoop
***Shoe, *** ***
Shoop, Shoop
***Shoe, ***
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 7:58 AM UTC
1960s
mop top,
pompadour,
hippie hair,
afro...
Dad gives me a crew cut...
Nov 6, 2019
Nov 6, 2019 at 8:59 AM UTC
It could have been the cigarette hanging from your perfect lips that have me goosebumps or it could have been your jet black hair slicked back in a pompadour style only hipster kids have these days... Not sure really but it sent shivers down my body.
You were the type of boy who liked to drink whiskey and had neck tattoos & I was the type of girl who was more awkward than a turtle.
You had this mystery about you under those dark sunglasses and you were so tall & sleek in that red flannel and black jeans... You were so ... hot
I had this problem where I would just stare until you looked over, which you did, and in turn I would look away blushing with shame.
I took one glance back as I started to walk away and saw you grinning this huge grin with your pearly white teeth and septum ring touching your upper lip.. Pretty sure my heart melted.
You were the guy I had dreamed about at night and I didn't even know your name of course.
Who was I kidding? We would never see each other again.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 12:38 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 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
Pity party, pity poison,
pity is pretty ****** off
at your Pompadour proposition, your Pompeii proposal.
The judge and jury blame your execution;
you thought the tri in matrimony meant three
in love when it really meant that you're the third wheel.
You hoped I'd kiss and tell in your world of wedding bells.
Go to hell.
You smiled as you beguiled with false feminine wiles the
boy of miles and miles away, hoping that he might stay
with you instead of her.
Well, this is his answer, and, dear failed romancer,
you won't get that last dance.
Her love was pretense in past tense,
events not recorded in your history book hips.
Ah, a novel idea: you, John Green with envy,
tried to bend me to your whim.
Tried, but your pride died when I sighed
and said that I loved her, so you booked it
from the floor and seemed gone forevermore,
a footnote in the lore until you...turned into a *****
came to me and said that you loved me more.
That is wrong.
Strike the gong.
This is a correction.
Your insurrection of our connection turned
affection into an infection,
and don't interrupt with your **** interjection--
were you expecting an ********
Because you're getting a rejection,
so keep your confection objection to yourself.
You hoped to trace my face, take first place or third base,
leave no space for even lace, and half of lace is empty space.
I should have brought mace.
You are jelly in a jam, so your ham-fisted attitude
led the lamb of love to slaughter;
the s leads laughter on, standing for ***
(check male or female),
stimulation, squabble, **** **** sext--
a wrecked relationship sinking, sinking,
and being nearer, my ******* God, to thee
makes me sick between my bulkhead bones.
The iceberg of your persistence
puts up its last resistance,
but it melts, melts, melts, in water hot as hell.
Is it not plain as you the pain you put me through?
You, with two left feet, hope I'll cheat the day we meet
on the girl who was your friend, and you've done this
once before.
Your dainty hopes that you could go two for two
with hearts and minds disgusts, and your lust broke my trust,
and I must, must, must ring the bells.
Class dismissed. I hope you've learned.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 5:29 PM UTC
Polaris in the eastern sky, intertwined with the gallop of gargantuan and the heathenous whimsy of untired daily life...
the gross note of our chorus, rushed through the tube of time in long haste of a brief reply.
ten feet from each of the deadly sins, we ride. the callous pompadour of our fashionable hate
and the rake in the face gag, with all the right people
to betray you.
an asterisk in the tween of your teeth, with the casserole lights and the marvelous crushtones of your raving denial.
the most goon of your impunity, lewdly. the fresh ruin of your mind in the wrong place for the least why.
ten feet from each of the deadly sins, we ignite ! but yet the breadth of our complete meaning bewilders late
into the hour
of our
hour
by the minute.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 2:46 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
Polaris in the eastern sky, intertwined with the gallop of gargantuan and the heathenous whimsy of untired daily life...
the gross note of our chorus, rushed through the tube of time in long haste of a brief reply.
ten feet from each of the deadly sins, we ride. the callous pompadour of our fashionable hate
and the rake in the face gag, with all the right people
to betray you.
an asterisk in the tween of your teeth, with the casserole lights and the marvelous crushtones of your raving denial.
the most goon of your impunity, lewdly. the fresh ruin of your mind in the wrong place for the least why.
ten feet from each of the deadly sins, we ignite ! but yet the breadth of our complete meaning bewilders late
into the hour
of our
hour
by the minute.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 3:46 AM UTC
Unseen,
destructive reaction
a branch quakes,
pines sway,
whiplash,
forces glide
millions of fingers,
through my hair
the original pompadour,
no adhesive necessary-
the original home wrecker,
no mistress necessary-
all natural,
one-hundred percent reusable
eye pulling,
lip smacking,
directionless,
brute force
Strong enough
to lift a house…
Delicate enough
to abet a butterfly…
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 2:23 PM UTC
within my walk an ocean sloshes
within galoshes to the drag of
two muffled feet past wonderlands
but with eyes under - galoshes over wonderlands
and yarning-balls of lads pry at my vast inertia
and wonder why they for gravitas
and decorum and the bouncing of a high pompadour
cannot shake spray or splutter
what we were vast weights -
lest we change or (worse)
gets better
through wet feet but drying calf
blazing with hypothermia
sloshing-still
through the lucid air of a vast globe tied-
to a wast treadmill round and walking
lamely talking, for the trip
dries stagnant and still the tides
bow to my mammoth galoshes
and Hercules to my panoply
while up your thumbs
and down your *****
are shrugs only
Jul 17, 2014
Jul 17, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
Pity poison, pity party,
pity is pretty ****** off
at your Pompadour proposition,
your parcel proposal!
O, a cardboard box,
the symbol of the distance crossed
and darker shadows to bright love lost.
What a world of merriment their melody foretells
as you shake them like little silver bells.
Go to hell.
Car chase scenes excite you; sit tight, you,
as your flight from fight reunites you with
the boy who never knew
what you are.
You are jelly in a jam, so your ham-fisted attitude
leads the lamb of love to slaughter;
the s leads laughter on, standing for *** (check male or female),
stimulation, stimulant, squabble, **** **** sext--
a wrecked relationship sinking, sinking,
and being nearer, my ******* God, to thee
makes me sick between my bones
but the iceberg of your persistence has to melt,
even with a bit of red paint.
Your dainty hopes that you could go
two for two with hearts and minds
not only disgust, but your lust broke my trust
and I must, must, must ring the bells.
Class dismissed. I hope you've learned.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 8:42 AM UTC
I-I-I want to put her head
on a robot's body;
I want to be w/ u @ midnight
maybe, the sentences white men
get is too slight; prisons should
be filled w/ them---
Bandy in negligee
quite a wide-eyed wonder---
Her eyeballs full of goldfish,
the neighbors who walks the hall
w/ no clothes on---
in the Pyongyang condo
she reads the NYT
delivered by the tall,
bearded boy who doesn't
want to draw attention
to his naturally
silver hair he wears in a pompadour
beneath an American baseball cap;
She sits in the stairwell
& smokes cigars &
he joins her when the lights go out
which is often---
Trump's self-sabotage
is rooted in his perceived sense of failure;
never enough, never good no matter how high,
enough---he's made of gold
& it's only a black hole---
He's a kook, crazy & mentally unfit 4 office;
when cross-dressing her bra can't be ****
but u never know---
She's calling outside my window
& complains my room is freezing
(364 - 58)
All the Jews want to move to Israel;
from my window
I can see the fortress-settlements
in the red hills---garrisons of Palestinian girls,
A loaded Palestinian girl
knocks on the door holding a bottle of gin;
I let her in, violating Sharia law
she lies down & pets the cat---
Jan 1, 2018
Jan 1, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
inside Elvis’
digital pompadour
there’s a
constitutional oligarchy
and a harelip
and
you watch
from the corner of
your eye
as he scratches
deep inside there
and sniffs at his
fingertips
and
turns to his
girl and says
how it’s
oh so redolent
of the eggs
of silverfish
and that Evel Knievel’s
cologne
was never
so sweet
Oct 5, 2016
Oct 5, 2016 at 9:54 PM UTC
From the time that Alison woke she knew
That she had to speak her lines,
It was part of some strange assignment that
Had lodged, deep in her mind,
And every day had begun like this
From as far back as the Prom,
For every day was a part to play
Though she didn’t know where from.
Her lines appeared in her deepest sleep,
Were as glue upon her page,
She wasn’t allowed to deviate
Protest, or express her rage,
She’d go to Milady’s ballroom all
Dressed up with bustle and flare,
Plastered with ancient make-up and
A Pompadour in her hair.
And Alan, down off the ballroom he
Would finish his last cigar,
Straighten his wig and tails and take
His boots on into the bar,
A tumbler there of Cognac he’d
Toss back, then head for the ball,
Looking to share his heart out there
With the fairest one of them all.
He’d met her before on other nights,
She’d hidden behind her fan,
Her lashes were long and fluttered then
As he tried to hold her hand,
But she had proved to be skittish, she
Would lead him along, then stay,
And disappear in the dancers there
As she struggled to get away.
But Alan was more determined now,
He pinned her against the wall,
Caught the scent of her heaving breath,
‘Don’t you care for me, at all?’
She’d hesitate as those hated lines
Once more came into her head,
‘Oh my, this maiden is blushing, sir,
My cheeks are burning red.’
He led her towards an ante-room
For a long desired embrace,
But he couldn’t see behind the fan
The anguish on her face,
She wanted to live and love, she thought
She wanted to cry aloud,
But all that her script would let her do
Was gravitate to the crowd.
And Alan was so frustrated,
He thought that he’d never score,
For Alison seemed to disappear
As he opened the bedroom door,
And she stood out in the coffee room
With amazement on her face,
Where had he gone, she’d closed her eyes
To wait for his sweet embrace?
Alan tore off his tie and wig
And he hurled them to the floor,
Why did she always disappear
Just there, at the bedroom door?
He flung about, and he just went out
With his face so set and pale,
‘I’ll not be staying a moment more
In a Barbara Cartland tale.’
He had wondered where his speech came from
It had seemed so stiff and trite,
Embedded into his head, it seemed
When he was asleep at night,
He jumped on into a cab outside
In a vain attempt to flee,
When Alison ran beside him then
And cried, ‘Hey, wait for me!’
David Lewis Paget
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 7:25 AM UTC
Every day brings a new adventure!
or so the sign had told me
hanging so delicately
on some sort of kombucha based
drink
as though I could augment my life
and invite adventure in just by
drinking a drink
but that's how advertising works
I suppose
and we must be above the ads
because we are all independent and
free
unless...
that too is an ad
and the revolution has been bought and sold
and we are all just loosely strung along
quirks
that are indicative of our specific
ideals of humanity
here's looking at you
white dude with flannel and dreadlocks
and Rastafarian colored shoes
here's looking at you kid with pompadour
haircut, pastel shorts, and a MAGA hat hanging
off his backpack
are we all truly going our own ways
or are we just advertisements for
something better than
being unknown
and undefined?
Feb 8, 2018
Feb 8, 2018 at 9:42 AM UTC
We dream of electric shocks,
data, meetings and dirt roads
away from the pavement.
Sunday, sun people, indiscriminate leisure.
Papers, the dog that smiles.
This gymnastics makes us better people.
We make up words that sound good. poems
and fruit salads. who would suspect that
is a pompadour a hairstyle? Or what to see
Defense and Justice would be a real pleasure?
I think it would be good to play a Pablo Emilio for
define this situation.
Pablo Emilio is a card game: four cards are dealt
to each player on the table. The idea is that they form a
Square -two above and two below.
Players can see once the cards.
Just once and memorize them. Almost like spying
through an ajar door. The two above are unknown:
Based on that then we will build
our game. The goal is to score the least amount of points
possible by swapping cards with the deck.
There are wildcards; 7, 8 and 9 allow you to make special movements.
And the jack of spades is worth zero.
That's important to remember
because all the other jacks are worth eleven - in a distraction you can
miss this card by changing it with a lower-scoring one-
The hands are played fast and everyone has their method. Sometimes they come to
complete one or two hands and you're done. Remembering the ones below and without knowing the ones
from above we are seeing what to assemble. If we put two or three of the same together, we throw them away
rigged. If not, we are methodically changing one for the other looking for
something.
Pablo Emilio is won when someone sings Pablo Emilio.
And whoever has the lowest score wins.
Naturally.
The important thing in this game is memory, some lights in
certain moments and taken chances.
We could study the repeal of the name Pablo Emilio
or start thinking about the possibility of assembling a low
scoring game.
We could think about what the other has or how he played his previous hand.
But first remember what we have.
Kind of that's the key, but I don't know whether to mention it now
in this short poem.
Contemplate the noise. Comply with chaos even on times of unavoidable crisis.
Or with the secret-warm-love watermarks on those photos that are only ours.
Blood and silence of dirt streets
that lead us away from the pavement. Electricity.
Everything is in ebullition. So do you.
Nov 13, 2022
Nov 13, 2022 at 6:21 AM UTC
Pretend that it does---
Or pretend that it doesn't----
either way, the world has no meaning---
never did---
there are no howling Banshees, thank u god, thanks 2 u---
Revolution obsolete,
Robot-yes-men crowd elevators
dying in 0.1 fell-swoop,
Thank u, Christopher Marlowe,
Christ surviving in u,
blood red like a Caravaggio smear---madame X asks for the loo,
it's down the hall---u can hear James Dean whining
in the arms of Madame Pompadour, please
close the door, let them be---
we were once of these alabaster halls &
walls & high ceilings---get ur pope off me!
Heretics have burrowed deep below
her racist aunt likes me 4 some reason---
she's a zombie-robot xenophobe,
excuse me, slippery metaphor
I'll get hold of in the dark,
in public, & call it art---
Because the world has no meaning
& u can't make it so, I took ur sister instead---
Her LEGGO blocks were bigger
& logic was in her bra that night
along w/ algebra in Bryant Park,
some dumb dark runway show---
Where she let me
I dreamt of tossing the body in the bay early the very next day,
But instead I broke down & cried
right there on the worm-eaten pier
& nearly fell in & joined my vodyanoy alter-ego
Will she love me again,
will Satan in his female gender look after me---
It took ur sister's sacrifice but God I hope she will
Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 7:25 AM UTC