"sequined" poems
Flora and Fauna, the sisters of Season
Of Spring and of Summer
Allow now our drummer
To drum out the beat
For the feet of the sisters
To glide and to creep
Like the encroaching sleep
Which may perch on your shoulder if we cannot keep you awake
And on the edge of your seat, sir.
Now the former, sweet Flora, will finger the flute
While the other continues to glide and to slide
Like a sequined Venetian harlequin bride;
And now Fauna will mimic the movements of bird and of beast
As she graces the work of our landscape artiste
And all is completely unfeasible
Completely lacks reason
We guarantee.
Presently
In the eye of the beholder
Sweet Flora seemingly draws from the aether a lyre
And with flourishing fingers she plucks from the heavens
A song of the seasons, a pagan ode to Pan!
Behold! No aid of hoops, no strings
The vestal-virgin-harlot sisters sing
Of beautiful Persephone
And with unseen damselfly wings
Ascend from mediocrity
All melody forgotten
All the drums create cacophony
And you will find serenity in chaotic monotony
Now let this climaxing crescendo banish all your sorrowing!
No more that light; no more that sacred realm
Life’s door was dappled gloam; now all is black.
A man of wax with saintly, hollow eyes
Devoid of sin, devoid of love and light
That golden room is lost – you can’t turn back.
Now love has lost its lustre - lust lost joy
And coy eyes turn to watch the empty man
Struck by eternal beauty, and condemned
To haunt the broken world of mortal men;
And shrilling wind caresses empty hand.
Jul 2, 2012
Jul 2, 2012 at 12:01 PM UTC
a black bat
hangs upside down
digesting a fly
his face almost human
a flying Frankenstein
he excretes
puddles of guano
like miniature buttered popcorn
a dark and wavy goulash
gods gift
to beetles and worms
dizzied overheated men look on
to an uproarious variety hour
of song and a high heeled kicks
inspiring
a tempest of throbbing
whisky drenched
folded ***** and cash
trouser trout fish,
undulant
sexed up
tape worms for love
pulse the night
egging on bunny **** pom poms
devout finger puppets of Eros
for
shimmering ****** lipstick twilled vibratos
sequined tassel spinning areolas
and lavish come **** me dance girls
bring down the house in flames
making hearts apostate
clamoring
and melt men like steaming everglades
the bat
hangs from the chandelier
licks his black lips
and looks on to panorama of hieroglyphics
hearing music
a thunderous nonsense
witnessing visions
of
flies, tasty white winged moths
and the thrill of screams
while biting the head off of another bat
in a claret stained red velvet cabaret
Aug 31, 2017
Aug 31, 2017 at 5:09 PM UTC
pretty pearl anklet
adorning your foot
tiara crown
princess ***** cow
all dressed up in a dark red
cherry sequined
come **** me dress
black lacquered nails
body beautiful prepped
for ordeal by gang bang
and pretty girl strangle
torture blood ****
wiggle wiggle
**** pink aglow
glistening hive
your mouth piece
bilingual
fucky and baby talk
all manicured and bejeweled
glitter and tears
***** food
inch worm lover
little bludgeon
your excited
for a bed of nails
what a luxury
legs spread wide
***** drool melt
your scent
a silk **** cocktail
in thick puce
stained pink milk pom poms
****** beyond tabulation
come sweet cow
its time for slaughter
down on your haunches
you look up
thrilled
dark dreams do come true
i love you
like the bog loves bones
embalmed in spice
Dec 23, 2016
Dec 23, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
Lyrics in her face
blaze, from screen to mouth
bony thumb, scrolling
mumbling into an ancient microphone
hanging from the rope swing
in her garage.
Voice shakes here, shivers there
but ****
she is soulful.
Authentic, exquisite
in holey socks and wet hair
and goosebumped arms
getting swallowed by a hoodie.
******* she has it all
and gives it nothing.
Some of us are simply stunning
no spray tans or updos
no sequined skirts or stiletto shoes
no autotune or makeup kits
no words-
only nothing
could improve her.
Nothing could improve her.
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 4:20 PM UTC
Standing just a foot away
In leather boots and sequined jeans
Five foot nine, lean and mean
at the Taqueria, El Si Hay
Pink cellphone and cheap sunglasses
Waiting in the order line
A pug-nosed man in chinos passes
and paces round to pass the time.
When it's cold I miss the birds
It's always nice to find
the easy flow of Spanish words
and English mixed in kind
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 4:45 PM UTC
first line lips are false as a beach next mcarthur’s in chicago next the big blond takes the elevator down next pearl on the lip next shalimar stirs the canine **** all right I like that let’s start a new one do it what what do you have don’t **** up wheres the apostrophe ******* you’re cruel now back now whack it again whack it again I want it to go back whack it press it whack it okay new line
i want elevator i want uh i want don’t ask the bellboy for the time just take the elevator to what? to notions? to the lingerie shop? ah **** you grandma new line
all right one more time okay **** the gin-socked tongue that’s “soaked” period once again the elevator down paint the pretty tie (cough cough) thai next big buick big *** like fish put a ? after fish take it back take it back you ***** okay that’s not bad you do all right ah **** song of india in the desert at night put “” marks around song of india & desert song in capital letters hit shalimar then cadillac red lips then **** like a seashell with a gin-soaked tongue start new line
all right does mcarthur stick his socks in the bathtune at night that’s bathtub the dog howls at the moon buries it in the backyard snakes lose their skin cocoa butter slick water on the brain of the big dark blond song of india **** **** **** big fish *** big v8 you ***** keep up with me painted rocks like a pretty tie fast car long legs and a broken heel now dead no not dead yet um estee lauder goes down on price-waterhouse in a swedish bath bellboy watching this is his reflection in the mirror no silver one-sided next line
big blond trampled by elephants with wrinkled knees starch is not chic all gone shalimar stirs the k-9 **** sequined *** in the moonlight cadillac red lips hungry dog eats tail becomes himself bad dog play dead okay what do you suggest bad doggie bad comma bad comma hungry dog go for the tongue you dumb ***** keep going new line
what do cactuses(i) have??? fronds fur what are their things called new line
dog hates gin go for the breast stupid ***** good dog dry dog poor dog pour blond water of life **** yellow a thai like painted rocks period next
i want head down legs up i want sequined *** only ****** level damp dampened dampest ***** panorama **** **** **** blue blue down there feminine azure with clouds too got it odalisque in blue period have mercy on me no no new ******* line what are you filling that thing up with okay stop it for now
4.6k
belaboring hurt-bells
of twilight
outside there is a furious wind
sweeping the sour-faced pavement.
the helm of the morning
fits through the pinecones.
through the dandelion,
the diadem of some mystic flower,
the flurry of children
and the fury of the populace.
i know whence the wind stirs
cold flame from the many a dead
stones, sequined floor and the
dreary stillicide of night.
our bodies rise to the sun
that is a full woman
or a ripe apple
or a half-bitten moon in glare
and when her lips purse
there is pang in the wind that blows austere beneath the foot
of hills in ruin.
let the night come later than
a bird's secret sojourn,
or the cicada's enigma.
let the cathedral of my heart
quiver later than the unsheathing
of the night's bone
but in the twilight,
when the skies are bruised with
silence and somnolent without voice
my hands shall leap into the wind
and make do, the belaboring
hurt-bells of twilight.
no more than a crepuscular twining
of a sad vine on a melancholy hymn
that makes fuller with its tender
maneuvers, the trundling in
love's wearisome vessel.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
My edges have no border
I seep & blotch the air
My thoughts a chaotic disorder
Laughing in silent despair
Who am I?
I’m the colorful mix
Of the pills I take at night
Grappling at the latest “fix”
But I never get the dosage right
So broken I shall stay
To listen but not to obey
I’m the perfect daughter
I know I ought to be
Smiling sequined next to my father
A beautiful sight to see
Painted fingertips, quiet lips
But I’m slipping from sexist grips
I’m the crash of atoms & molecules
The patterned DNA that labels our culture
Theorems, functions, evolutionary tools
Poe knew: Science is a “vulture
Whose wings are dull realities”
Fact blinds what my mind sees
Forgive me I’m singing
Of what I am & cannot be
& My ears are still ringing
With who society has asked me to be
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
He always wanted to go on a trip
To entertain passengers on a cruise
After searching found the perfect ship
He set sail, he had nothing to lose.
Packing his sequined shirts for the ride
Which he'd got from the charity shop
He had also a few secrets hidden inside
including a avery pretty ladies frock!
He'd spent ages looking at it and he had sewn
little sparkly bits along the sleeves and neck line.
He wore it the first night and got covered in foam
and someone had splashed him with red wine.
He thought he'd disembark at the next available quay
But as time went on it was not as bad as he had thought
First night blues over he now sings every night at sea
In his new role as Drag Queen of the Palace Resort.
Passengers line up to get tickets for his show in the queue
He entertains all of the evening and most of the day
He is at his best and he is one of the crew
It is his home and is where he will stay.
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 11:17 PM UTC
Turn the kitchen sink on. Wait 36 seconds. Turn the sink off. Count the sides of the kitchen doorway. One, two, three. Put socks on, walk to the bathroom. Take socks off. Turn the bathroom sink on. Wait 36 seconds. Turn the sink off. Count the sides of the bathroom doorway. One, two, three. Put socks on. The whole procedure had been finely polished into a smooth six minutes. Exactly. Justin’s day can now begin. He finishes his normal routine and leaves the house. He checks the gutter. He’s not checking for anything specific, but it’s sixth in his morning ritual and must be done.
Today he found something. There’s a girl, passed out. She is wearing an excessively short turquoise sequined dress, with matching stilettos. Justin was at a loss. The gutter was not empty. Should he call the police? He took her shoe. He ran. Six blocks later, he stopped. He was In front of his favourite coffee shop. It was an intimidating place, with a tattoo and piercing service offered, while you wait for your coffee. He liked it because the address was 666. He was worried the police he hadn't phoned would be searching for the stiletto he had stolen. Who would have known he would turn to a life of crime? Just earlier, while the bathroom sink was on, he had been thinking of complementing the local parking officer (the one with the limp) on his ability to write tickets. Now here he was, holding the glittering fruit of his crime. Maybe he could return it to the young lady. She seemed nice enough, from what little he knew of her. But what if she questioned him? Best have an excuse prepared. He could say he saw a spider climbing into it. His chivalry had saved her from a nasty bug bite. No, he couldn't pull that off. He would pretend to be a poet, that’s what he’d do. Poets are known for being strange. So he set about writing her a poem.
*Turquoise like the rain,
off you go, down the drain.
With a dress, short like our fleeting existence,
that could really do with some more distance.
I took your heel to 666,
left you a poem in the mix.*
Justin was in fact quite proud of his apparent literary side. He rejected -yet again- a discount on tattoos, and left the coffee shop. He walked back to his gutter, Finding once again the girl, passed out. Slipping the stiletto back into place on her foot, he looked around guiltily, double checking the police hadn't followed him. He went inside. He went to bed. The next morning, he forgot to turn the kitchen sink on. He didn’t wait 36 seconds. Didn’t turn the sink off. Didn’t count the sides of the kitchen doorway. One, two, three. Didn’t put socks on. Didn’t walk to the bathroom. Didn’t take socks off. Didn’t turn the bathroom sink on. Didn’t wait 36 seconds. Didn’t turn the sink off. Didn’t count the sides of the bathroom doorway. One, two, three. Didn’t put socks on.
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 2:20 AM UTC
sparkling gems adorn the night sky
studding the vast backdrop of black
glittering glints which do magnify
sparkling gems adorn the night sky
a dazzling splendor to ever beautify
sequined glories that verily eye smack
sparkling gems adorn the night sky
studding the vast backdrop of black
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
-arriving at eglington west station-
there's the fragrance drifting off
of her shoulders
as she checks her reflection
on smartphone mirror app,
floral pattern matching the
bright of her nails,
the sun shining onto sequined flats
that show no wear.
-glencairn, glencairn station-
there's her youth indicated by
backpack, baseball cap,
and conversation subject matter
discussing video game system merit,
there's the hand me down excitement
of muddy knees and torn jeans,
-arriving at lawrence west station-
each millimetre contributing to grimace,
beard whisker, wrinkle stationed
to the sides of each of his eyes,
weary traveller, seemingly ignoring
everyone with grocery bag
occupying chair like child,
-Yorkdale, Yorkdale station-
we used to weave through these crowds
and people watch together,
and the people would watch us,
young love, so simple,
oblivious to stage,
fingers interlocked, blocking
crowds from passing by,
there was the taste of strawberry
banana smoothie, freshly squeezed,
on your lips, we'd race up
escalators, only to circle
back down, we'd find the nook
of book store, to steal a moment,
you'd ignite, ignoring the clatter
of barrista, starbucks adjacent,
and there would walk by or sit
dolled up princess,
adolescent tomboy,
aging cantankerous senior,
these faces haven't changed
as much as ours have.
-please stand clear of the doors-
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
It's Sunday
The Mexicans are all doing their laundry
Little girls with shiny bows, sweatpants and sequined tops
Happy smiling faces
Lead the brigade
Mothers follow
Shopping carts on the brink of exploding
The wheels about to blow
Tuxedo shirts, soccer uniforms with the words ***** PAN monogrammed on the front, mismatched socks, and pajamas with feet
Colors
A mess
Cheap laundry detergent stuck on top
I rush down to the laundry
They always take the best machines
I find my place
Throw my little load in
One person does not have that much
I never realized how alone I was
Until that moment
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
I stepped into the house and removed
my rain-soaked shoes on the grizzled entrance mat.
No one in the kitchen.
Though the aroma lingered, the coffee *** had turned itself off.
I touched the glass -- cool.
No one in the living room.
Half a pair of sequined flats were in the dog's mouth,
half a lady's pantsuit -- the black legs -- lied on the floor.
A soap opera on the screen, the volume low, the gold-tipped ceiling fan oscillating,
and Serge Gainsbourg's Histore de Melody Nelson played down the hall.
I followed the breathy vocals and wandering baseline to my room,
and there she sat.
The blinds open, veiny rain running along the pane,
on the beige carpeted floor, next to my unmade bed,
criss-crossed Jessica.
"Hey, sweetheart," I said.
Jessica smiled.
When she smiles, her cheeks go flush,
she lowers her head slowly, embarrassed,
but yet when she laughs,
she laughs loudly, boldly.
I've never understood that.
Jessica was wearing a white, spaghetti-strap undershirt
and blue cotton *******
Her brunette curls -- down, reaching past her shoulders.
Her toenails -- painted purple and chipped.
Newspapers lied strewn about her,
with puddles of acrylic paint atop them.
In her lap,
a white canvas stapled to a wooden backing frame.
She sang,
*"Princesse des ténèbres, archange maudit,
Amazone modern' style que le sculpteur,
En anglais, surnomma Spirit of Ecstasy."*
as she painted two lovers growing together
like curious oak trees.
I sat behind her on my bed. Pushed aside the tangled sheets.
She craned her neck to kiss my cheek sweetly.
"How was your day?" I asked.
"Oh, who cares," she responded.
Her eyebrows lifted, her fingertips traced my thigh,
"Tell me something beautiful."
"What?"
She dipped her paintbrush in red, in white and applied them
to the lovers' lips.
"Tell me something beautiful."
"I can't think of anything," I said.
"Try."
Sep 28, 2012
Sep 28, 2012 at 12:03 AM UTC
She rolls along the high wires
Tightrope walkin' moon
She graces life's big circus
She is gone too soon
Huge! A glowing fairie
So luminous! So bright!
She's suspended on the ropes
The performer of the night!
I watch her intently
As she's held aloft
Then she slips toward the hills...
... she is fallin' off!
But she bows down and curtseys!
A smile on her face
She's lost not her dancer's poise,
She maintains her grace.
Finally she exits
The horizon sets the stage
She is only a faint glow
The night has turned the page.
I'll remember her with fondness
As she danced to Claire de Lune...
In her sequined tutu
Tightrope walkin' moon.
SøułSurvivør
8/26/2018
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 8:37 AM UTC
with what sense does
this sea of read
pirouette on?
the soot leaving black
blotches on the ****** sheets,
lampposts do not complain
of sudden twitches
as cacophonously, a line
of machines with their ravenous
machinisms create a seam of
crimson to a slender
rose's architecture.
i leave my engine on
so as to hand this road
my readiness,
Ely Buendia on the tattered radio
leaks outside the ajar windows,
chasing the dream of rearing
movements
as my flesh remains dreamless,
stationary.
there is a sequined gathering here.
erratic simulations of
naked eyes pierce the musk
of the austere air's gravity
of existence.
all of us
occupying space
and our attendance is our
sigh of dismay as our homes
decompose in waiting,
as our beds remind us
of our body's aging clamor,
as our ineluctable senescence
opens the dungeons of our frailties
with its trembling, wrinkled hands.
we are our waiting's consummation
as we are left here,
wary of our precise proprioception,
left in
the tongue-tied dark.
Sep 16, 2015
Sep 16, 2015 at 9:25 AM UTC
From time to time
I sit outside
and watch the night sky
deep in its shadow
and dreaming
of a dusky woman
with black hair
and a sequined dress
riding high on her thighs
until my eyelids
grow dark
from the starlight.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
last night
as I soaked my feet
in hot water and fragrant oils
put on some
Bollywood tunes
and let my hips
start to sway
my head began
to swoon
and the binding
threads holding me so tight
inside myself
began to fray
my chest opening in
rips and starts
to reveal its valves
in engorged release
of dark magenta shadows
of teasing, gnashing inner beasts
while this was going on
the moon lit up
around me
in its eight different phases
its halves and crescents
shimmering
in incense-scented cadence
my fingers reached out
to stroke each one,
unique in its own heated glow
as I realized that
they will never cease,
these sequined
streams of joy
in embroidered flow
as long as we are connected
to the root point of self
the love pumps quiet fire
in our veins
even when trapped
in slamming undertow
pressed tornado slab
of pain
and I have had my face
pressed under watery surfaces
for such a long time
that suffocation
almost feels like
breathing
so it's time to
move these hips and thighs
and get this soulspark
reeling
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 6:18 PM UTC
Every now and then,
When I'm sitting alone in my
Pajamas, with a cup of hot
Chai tea and a dash of honey
In the morning
I sit against the wall
I breathe in and out
Once, twice, a few more times
And then I let down the
Gate in my mind
And my thoughts
Prance in the field of
Morbid dreams
I imagine my death
And I wonder just who
Would bother to show
And I wonder if
That boy, yeah, that one,
The one I loved for
Five years,
Would anyone even
Tell him?
Or would he be too busy
Shooting up, getting drunk,
Too busy trying to attempt
Inadvertent suicide?
I picture my mother
In her pressed black pants
And her modestly sequined
Funeral blouse that I've only
Seen three times or so
She'd rip the glasses off of her
Head and scream at my father
*Why was she such a *****
Didn't she know I loved her?*
Yeah, Ma, I knew
I knew you loved me when
You grounded me for an A-
I knew you loved me when
You glared at the food on my
Plate,
After I hadn't eaten in a week
And huffed,
*You're going to eat that?
Do you want to be an elephant
Or something?*
I knew when you read my
Diary in seventh grade
And yelled about all of the
Deep secrets I wrote to paper
I knew when you told me
How disappointed you were
When you swore you'd never
Ever
Be proud of me
Then my mind wanders over
To my father
The big teddy bear
Graying scalp, icy eyes
His suit from 1977
That always made me laugh
And I let myself wonder
If he would even
Bother to cry
I skim across my friends
Druggies
Thieves
Liars
Cheaters
They'd miss me, wouldn't they?
Last, I ponder over
Who would show up
That I wouldn't even want
To be there
The people I've crossed
And thrown away
The ones I loved
And wrote off
I'm sure there would
Be plenty of those
Spewing lies about
How I used to be
And it all swirls together
Down Tornado Alley
My ex's lack of interest
My mother's bleeding heart
My father's vacant stare
My friends' misplaced grief
My enemies' back stabbing falsehoods
And I wonder if any
Of these people
Would honestly be able to say
That they knew me at all...
Meanwhile, the Christmas music
My mother loves to blast
Flows down the hallway and
Under my door
*Fa la la la la
La la la la...*
Dec 21, 2010
Dec 21, 2010 at 5:35 AM UTC
drunk woodland children, we
ask so many questions, we
firefly skin. the picnic table beneath
our lamps, our ouija board, our girlfriends
next to us warm and laughing.
stories:
we tell stories to scare eachother
before descending into our tents
on the outer darks.
sweet night nothings.
& everythings.
i’m consumed by dreams of you;
somehow running;
somehow ******* my way out of my own inevitable
death.
a lady bug wing half-yanked and humming.
wind scorpion.
mosquito
in the early morning buzz, and i roll over
to see your puffy little sleeping face ::: sunlight there.
limp beyond the tent and zipper.
we eat mayo sharp cheddar salami wheat sammies
& take acid.
everyone one else goes on a group nature-hike,
but i stay behind
hallucinating of my dead mother in those sequined clothes she used to wear.
::: we play scrabble and talk,
until she leaves.
like love.
like guitar strummed chords and many hydrations later –
my tribe returns,
with fish.
the girl i love.
you/she roll joints in your lap,
in my lap,
in a chair and i mirage
the faces of everyone through glass &
slosh; through campfire
& lemonade.
Jun 6, 2014
Jun 6, 2014 at 4:22 AM UTC
To sit upon this wooden chair
Before this plain white wall,
May seem, to you, to be quite odd
To me it does enthrall.
I take in all the vacant space
And let my eyes caress
The symmetry and peacefulness
…And I really must confess,
The nothingness before me
Draws me in, in such a way
As I wrap myself in plain, white wall
… my mind begins to play
From that tiny smudge of blue emerge
Kaleidescopes of clay
Which carouse across the vacant space
In a most artistic way,
In small concentric circles
In a patterned, frenzied style
They fill the background with mosaic
Of a gold and reddish tile,
With rooster tails of livid green
And dancing through the scene,
A spangled hand of aqua blue
Paints off a sequined theme.,
Some dancing naked maidens
Cavort pinkly in the pool
And a flight of silver satyrs
Scamper in and act the fool.
The roaring sound of raindrops,
The rush of welling tears,
There’s the thrill of my involvement
…and then “Ping” It disappears!
My plain white wall’s in front of me,
I’m sitting on that stool.
I sneak a peak, to check and see,
If someone’s being cruel.
My sister caught me out one day,
She roared with earthy glee
And pointed her fat finger
That girl made fun of me.
It’s really a small price to pay
To be a strange oddball.
I’d rather suffer this than leave
To watch ANOTHER wall.
I sit upon this wooden chair
Before this plain white wall,
May seem, to you, to be quite odd
To me it does enthrall…..
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
24 January 2008
Oct 20, 2009
Oct 20, 2009 at 8:43 PM UTC
All the roads are closed. Silence metastasizes through the stretch of EDSA. Cold seeps in bone. Sun still flagellates.
Oscillate through sound space and whitewashed walls. Seismic grunt of jeepney awakens the signs: no avatars, yet. The night was as deep as any lover, a fine blistering moon glares through lit rivers.
Nothing exists except heads of tacks and maimed populace ambulating across roads sequined with ermine light. The disquiet approximates the lightness of
buildings in repair. Scaffolds, ubiquitous lovers,
clouds explode into white, and everything else like pain, pales in comparison with the slow twitch of everything.
Today there will be no siren nor
simultaneous joust of cyclists in perpetual motion— just you contending
against hues of all graffiti:
Cataract of anguish. News of killing.
Incarnadine trees netted with aureoles burning bright in solstices. Penumbral undulation of
forethought and afterthought.
Dislimned – all; you, left
in polaroid taken in solitary shutter,
in pursuit of light.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 1:59 PM UTC
Remember last New Years Eve?
We had plans to go to my aunts house,
then last minute you decided that you didn't want to go. You decided that you wanted to throw a party, not at our apartment, but at your fathers house. I thought this was strange, but I agreed to ditch out on my family, for you. You left early to prepare for this party; told me to meet you there later, but when I showed up at your door, you turned me away. I was dumb founded. You told me that it just wasn't the kind of party that I'd be into. What does that even mean? I should specify though, you didn't actually answer the door && tell me to leave. You were never man enough for such a thing. You texted me. I was standing outside of your door, && you texted me && told me to leave. So I did. What was I supposed to do at that point, beg to be let into a place where I was clearly unwelcome? I walked back to my car, in my sequined party dress. I drove back to our apartment. We had one of those text fights we always had; the kind where I asked you why you had done something unkind to me, && you flipped it so that by the end of the conversation I was apologizing to you && begging for forgiveness. I sat there in the dark, in the apartment, for the remainder of the night. I cried myself to sleep.
Fast forward to this year. You have the audacity to contact me, asking if I miss you. What I miss is the person I was before I knew the likes of you.
Here's to a new year, untainted by your touch.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 4:43 PM UTC
I am a walking glass
Transparent
An overflowing rim
I hope it’s not too apparent
Don’t tip me
I might just spill
Was it one drink or three?
I’ve drunk my fill
I’m your whiskey girl
Bubbling over
A sequined, beaded twirl
another lover
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
Shutter of Polaroid glamour
Smile for the world, curse the camera
Hide the bruises with sequined satin
The limelight flatters skin of cold, hard stone, you the latter
Liz you marble statuette
Maril you glitt'ring diamond
Regal laugh & darling, another glass of 'champagne'
Douse your bones in Chanel
Put on your lipstick
Pull the curtain
...Start the show
We're their golden circus- "watch the beasts, tame the women, hear the showmen."
Whips, rings of fire!
Top hats & show lights...
Which's your favorite ring: the songstress, the cad, the dream?
Pour yourself a drink, repaint the mask, shining glitz & gleam.
Children of the Golden Age, driver start the Cadi
Hollywood front-page, plaster royalty.
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC