"sequins" poems
Burning fuel but not to leave,
boys circled town, came back
to the station where they began.
Gas exhaust drifted like spirits
above asphalt, dissolving in the night.
Girls stayed in the lot,
waiting for men old enough
to buy liquor, their names
claiming the land-
long after other names lay
buried in the ground.
They kept to the faces,
legs folded on hoods,
lip gloss catching the station lights,
bracelets chiming, hair flips rehearsed,
laughing at trucks circling back.
They wanted to be chosen, and I tried
to want that too- tried to be a girl among girls,
waiting for the moment some hand
would tug me out of the circle.
But my eyes kept straying-
across the street,
to the rise that was not just dirt
but a chest under earth,
ribs shifting,
a hum curling into my throat.
Something skeletal in its patience,
as if Baykok himself
were sharpening arrows in the dark,
waiting for breath to break.
Built long before us by Ojibwe,
still honored as sacred ground.
The others smoked, struck sparks,
sequins spilling from careless wrists,
never thinking how easily flame
might travel down, through us,
into what we couldn’t see.
I could hear bones shifting,
a buried drumbeat, the land’s own warning.
Every glance of the mound
pulled me back into silence.
It told me what the others
didn’t want to know-
that all this circling, waiting,
was only the lid of a grave.
Oct 3, 2025
Oct 3, 2025 at 12:02 AM UTC
the river is
drinking it
sequins
blankets
the river runs past
hobos
unidentified
water fowl
two trolls
taking shelter under
the bridge
there’s conversation
in another language
fiendish brains connecting
fiendish yet
beautiful
thunder
tampons
a turtle
a naked boy
on the patio
rain
definitely
rain
unmatched
and the steam
coming from the
bridge
*once there was a troll
on my face
and I swatted it
with a broom
but it came back
it came back
with you*
laughter pounds
with the rain
laughter that wears
emotion like
skin
soft
elastic
still pink
bouncing
on the river’s surface
breaking
absorbed
sustenance for
the trolls
like fiends with faces
like minds with names
these two connect
with spark
and the rain
falls
the stillness under
nature’s
machinery
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 10:26 PM UTC
They bruise their pupils with the sharp red roses.
They built in an empire with fur ruffles & sequins.
They lived with poise spark & jealousy.
Burnt yet alive,
torn yet together.
Eyes, prudent of all,
Minds, dangerous of all.
Survive, said the Father
Believe, said the Jesus
Jun 16, 2018
Jun 16, 2018 at 1:35 PM UTC
As the sun moves to the western horizon
Colors are skilfully blended in a palette
In an instant the sky becomes an exquisite canvas of art
Making even Van Gogh burn in jealousy
With the last glimmer of sunset
When the shadows chase the light,
The aerial folks fly back to their nests
Like black and white specks dotting the sky
With a dark drape stretched across the Earth’s face
The arrival of the night is a spectacular sight
Cicadas and crickets welcome her with their ceremonious band
And street lamps blink their eyes to catch a better view
While truant clouds still wander around aimless
The cerulean sky signals them to hurry
Stars slowly appear in the night sky
Like sequins stitched on to a blue brocade
The crescent moon smiles down
The empress of the night, proud and regal
She and her retinue keep guard over the slumbering Earth
The unpaid sentries of the night!
A gentle breeze makes a palanquin ride
Wafting in the scent of opening buds
The beauty of the night sends me to raptures
My heart exploding like foaming wine in a bottle
Yet I cannot but keep wondering
How many dark secrets
The night holds
Within her tenebrous folds!
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:52 PM UTC
in the dark
compass spinning
wanton wind
howling, wailing
brittle arms
in concert waving
emerald waters
whipped and raging
sky crushed velvet
sequins sewn tight
to the shattered
span of night
a million times
each time as new
with stardust eyes
with gratitude
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 11:07 AM UTC
Your collar bell jingles
And all the other felines
Look at you as though
You are a Queen
You smile and shake your head
The collar bell jingles louder
The sequins on the collar sparkle
The Lady Feline smiles deeply
I put a compact mirror in front
Of her face the other day
(Mind you, cats usually
Don't like looking at themselves in mirrors)
And the Lady Feline stared at herself
For long periods of time
Sometimes blinking
Sometimes squinting
Always smiling though
Such adorable vanity
And her collar bell jingles
As if she's trying to attract
All the male felines
And make them love her
~Marian~
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 12:25 PM UTC
Cloaked in black
And sparkly purple sequins,
Waving his magic wand in the air.
He performs
In front of one crowd
After another.
The audience gasp in awe
As he pulls a rabbit
Out of his top hat.
People wonder,
"How does he do it?"
When he performs yet another card trick.
Finally the show is over.
The magician stands on the stage, alone,
Getting ready for his next act.
Magic,
It may seem mystical for the ordinary person,
But to the magician,
It's an everyday thing.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 4:19 AM UTC
And the fish swim in the lake
and do not even own clothing.
– Ezra Pound
How would they style themselves for the net,
the little fishes of the lake?
Not robes of purity, Ezra,
but sequins cut from trash,
brands bright as lures,
fashioned to catch the eye, a glint of sun.
Would the big ones strap on knockoff fins
to flex in shark cosplay near the shore,
snapping reels in the reeds,
captioned #greatwhitevibes #apexpredator?
Would carp veil themselves in algae,
funeral couture,
posting stories of their grief in green?
Would they admire the fishery tags:
industrial piercings they can’t remove,
or the hook-slit scars from catch-and-release,
each one a verified badge,
proof they were trending once, briefly,
before sinking out of frame?
Would they tilt to the water’s glass,
checking which gill looks slimmer,
tails arched like influencers at golden hour,
the shimmer hiding shame,
the shame we taught them to wear?
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 2:34 PM UTC
*If you are willing and obedient,
you will eat the good things of the land;*
-Isaiah 1:19
You left your hair long in the hopes some
Jersey-eyed boy would braid flowers into it
Mark you with sequins and well written post
And treat you like a
Better than most.
But there was no way of predicting the air, up here
The dry dusk crackles with static and you know your head's a mess
but there is always the summer always monsoon season always
The way your little hands would break what they could not bend.
and all the eyes are on you now but they are desert eyes
And only in dark rooms. And only at night.
And they hold your hair back as you
And leave you reaching for the light.
And when the summer comes you are brittle brittle
Cakes baked in hot sun
and your hands have fought so many battles and
So many battles and
little hands they come undone.
and to you you are the only one.
Nov 3, 2012
Nov 3, 2012 at 4:43 PM UTC
The full moon caught a glimpse
where the billowed clouds parted
Saucer size Dogwood blossoms
echoed an urging reflection
through wide open window ;
the diffused moonlight reached in
touching the open palms
enduring in an empty void
lay down beside
Softly burnished reflections
lighten blanched flesh petals
swaying in the wakened
spring cadence
Rhinestone memories
tethered from somewhere above ;
as if manipulating puppet strings
dangling down through
the seesaw cloud gap ―
scattering candlelit sequins
like unmapped constellations
brushed by the moonlight
in the dale of your leafless *******
The fragrant breeze
of your memory
gathers a sweetest taste,
teasing wishful thirsty lips
into a gentle smile ...
Tracing unbounded memories
with wandering fingertips
upon your intimate
canvas oasis in my mind
Fallen petals floating gently
across still waters
induced by whispered breeze ;
quiet reminders that ripple
the mesmerizing silence
with the lonely breath
an unheard evanescent sigh
The open window
let the moonlight in,
illuminating lingering
shadows of the past ...
you feel the waft
of spring breathe ...
but you just can't help
where the wind blows
Jesse e. Stillwater
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 1:09 PM UTC
Muelle de Binondo Street,
Barangay San Nicolas,
Old Manila.
My dad's fate
Will always be muddled
With nostalgia:
The mid-afternoon
Traffic of fruit vendors,
The toothless strains
Of my grandfather's voice,
Bouncing off
The warehouse walls
Like folding cardboard,
The ceramic gallops of horse-
Drawn kalesas taking him
From school to
My grandfather's offices,
Every day and back,
Up and down
The cardboard box river
To Tondo. There, he hurriedly
Buys ten
Asado buns
From a stall across the
Street from their
School - a voracious
Schoolboy
Forever late for class, forever
Putting on basketball jerseys
Too wide for him,
Basketball shorts too
Short; body
Always too gangly,
Too long-limbed, wide eyed
And fleet footed
For his dreams to catch.
He once could dunk.
He is still a baby boomer -
Scared of firecrackers,
Weird penchant
For popped collar shirts,
Pointed shoes, and
Sequins - he, was an avid
Lover of stars - his old
Dust-strewn bed posts
Giving way, I imagine,
To iron bars caging
The luminous starry night,
Floating high above
The sewage
And the freight trucks
That weigh him so.
They sang to him.
In the tune of
My mother's voice -
The only album
He ever possessed.
Song set from
His favorite band.
"Apo Hiking Society."
His favorite word,
Was "leap."
A disciple
Of MJ, Dr. J,
And Magic,
Samboy, and Jawo,
Icarus on hardwood
And leaping
From the free throw line.
"Son," he once told me,
"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."
He was always afraid of heights.
It wasn't until 41 that
We made him ride a roller-coaster,
That he had even seen a roller-coaster.
"You gotta leap
"If you wanna live."
I think my favorite
Memory of my dad
Is still him wringing my fingers
At Space Mountain with
Eyes so tightly shut
That we forgot
Our fears,
And screamed instead:
So.
This,
Is how the stars look like
When unbolted
By folding cardboard,
And iron bars.
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 9:32 AM UTC
Images extracted from
the tapestry of my dreams.
Sewn intricate...
Into a patchwork.
A quilt,
embroidered with lavish sequins and ornate beads.
Bringing forth fantastical motifs...
A dazzling display
upon the backdrop of my dreamscape.
Yet...
This mosaic of dreams
does not warm me so.
It never lasts.
They fall away like autumn leaves
come the dawning sun.
They get washed out and pulled into the tide,
as the waves beat upon the shore of wakefulness.
They fade into fragmented memories
that make no sense...
Incoherent and disjointed.
Eventually, they disappear...
For they do not belong
in a world of worldly things
and ticking clocks.
Their intangible and mismatched nature
render them inconsequential...
Naturally...
They get misplaced.
But I am stubborn.
I will fashion such a blanket.
One that skirts the boundary
of this realm and the other.
I will tailor it so...
So that...
I will sleep tonight,
swaddled tight and cocooned within its
glorious seams.
Tucked within the safety and warmth of
this blanket...
Woven immaculate...
Out of
worldly things and breathtaking dreams.
Sep 30, 2016
Sep 30, 2016 at 10:14 AM UTC
Did you know the East Indian Bottle Masala includes as many as 27 spices, or that an oil-free pickle served at their weddings is actually known as Wedding Pickle?
These and many such authentic East Indian masalas and pickles are available at East Indian Cozinha (Portuguese for kitchen), a food store started by Christina Kinny at Kolovery Village in Kalina, Santacruz. "I started East Indian Cozinha with an attempt to preserve and highlight our cuisine and culture," says the 24-year old, who has studied Masters in Social Work and currently, works with an enterprise that helps tribal farmers.
What’s in store?
Going back 500 years, the East Indian cuisine enjoys influences from Portuguese, British and Maharashtrian fare. The staples include rice, coconut, tamarind, fish and meats, with spices forming an integral part of the cuisine. For instance, Prawn Atola is a dry dish comprising prawns coated only with Vindaloo Masala featuring Kashmiri chilli, cumin and turmeric. "Most people from our community were farmers and would be out on field all day. So, the masalas and lemon would help preserve their food for a longer time," reasons Kinny.
At present, the store stocks six varieties of masala in 100g bottles (R150 onwards). These include Khuddi or Bottle Masala, Chinchoni (fish) Masala, Vindaloo Masala, Roast Rub, Kujit Masala and Tem Che Rose. She also offers Wedding Pickle, an oil-free variety prepared with raw papaya, carrots and dry dates. "All the recipes have been passed on from generations and are homemade," she informs.
However, making the masalas is no cakewalk. "It takes three days to dry spices under the sun. Then, we hand pound them and pack them tightly in bottles with wider openings," says Kinny. She recalls that in her grandmother’s time, the masalas were tightly stuffed in beer bottles. The bottles were darker, and hence, helped preserve the masala for at least a year, at room temperature.
Lugra love
East Indian Cozinha also stocks traditional 10-yard saris known as lugras. These are hand embroidered by Kinny’s mother, Carol. Previously made only from cotton with authentic gold borders, now, lugras are embroidered with sequins and threads. "She has been in the garment industry for the last 30 years. She also makes traditional accessories like kapotas (earrings), karis (hair pins), anklets, etc," informs Kinny.
read more:www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses
www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 1:52 AM UTC
You sit in busy subway cars
and start tabs at the ****** bars
in search of girls with wider hips
to trace in the air with your fingertips
You look for love in silhouettes
but find it in your cigarettes
and when you think your love life's back on track
you're reaching for another pack
Your denim sofa is a shrine
for sequins and for cheap red wine
which stains the fabric every night
but won't clean off, try as you might
You stroll down backstreets and alleys on end
hoping you will find a friend
in a girl who sells herself to you
because you know she needs friendship too
Nov 5, 2013
Nov 5, 2013 at 9:54 PM UTC
When I look at myself, I am not beautiful.
My feet are twisted and gnarled like the wood of an old tree.
My limbs are gangly and thin.
My eyes are too large,
My hair is too straight and too dark,
And my ******* are too small.
In the mirror each day, I cannot tell myself I am a radiant woman.
But when the music starts, I shine.
The notes hit me like rays of the setting sun, and every hue of grace and passion is splayed across
The folds of my dress,
The arch of my back,
The curve of my ankle,
The stretch of my throat.
Each harmony, each crest and fall of sound and feeling
Is a wave that breaks over me,
And I am lost.
I drown in emotion, in the distinct expression of self that only movement can allow,
And in that moment, I forget beauty.
I forget love and hatred and pain and joy, and as I forget I am freed.
I forget because they no longer belong to me.
I have given them to the melody,
To the dance which draws them out of me like venom-
The next move, fraught with the tension of 'goodbye forever',
The next turn, spun by the unraveling of my heart,
The next leap, lent weightless wings by the joy of a first kiss,
The next slow reach carved from the desperation of 'it's all my fault'.
As they leave me, they become me, crashing down on the audience I've also forgotten, burning the bright after-image of my soul into the shadows of theirs.
I have never seen myself beautiful.
I have never looked. I have forgotten to look.
For when the music hits me, it turns me in on myself, and I can see nothing but my own spirit- a shower white hot of sparks-
And the cascade of the notes in folds of velvet against my mind.
I have never seen beautiful, but I have felt it.
It feels like a smooth silk shoe and blisters on my feet,
It feels like the trickle of sweat along my brow and the stab of muscle cramps in my legs, and the scrape of hairpins and sequins.
It feels like breathlessness when the curtains open.
It feels like the worn wooden stage upon which my heart may bleed all it wants.
For it does, it gushes, and it is the ugliness of passion.
It is terrifying, it is raw, it is light-starved and beaten, it is all I have.
And when I get up on a stage, people call it beauty.
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 8:11 PM UTC
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Anushka Sharma wearing in Manish Malhotra's Lehenga Choli Designs. This cream colour looks elegeant on any complexion. Covered with sequins and beads graces up the beauty. Bottom is richly adorned while her Backless Choli is crafted with lots of pearls and beads, comes with Net see through stole with silver sequins scattered all over. The Color of the product may differ from that shown on your computer screen. The difference in color is mostly due to flash, monitor or camera settings. The images shown are only for reference.Anushka Sharma wearing in Manish Malhotra's Lehenga Choli Designs. Cod india
Nov 29, 2013
Nov 29, 2013 at 2:12 AM UTC
Foggy breeze through my
fingertips when sunburnt days
seem coveted in memory.
When the columbines came back from the dead.
Burnt up cities...
The last glimpse of
firefly lights grew dim behind me
The trees sprouted everywhere like stardust
The pillars I once worshipped
in incense with amulets
became faded ruins...
The weathered walls texture
were like sequins with no glimmer
I escaped again to a place with green lakes and forrests of pines
It's quieter up here in the
mountains
Like a shudder through the
window
I hear the old house moan all
through the day and all
through the night
The sunlight pierces through
the blinds
illuminating his face
which is already illuminated
But you're my bumblebee
that insignia- a honey gatherer
If you subtract the intimacy
out of ***
Nothing's left, but
hollow mechanical *******
Stealing the rythmn from
the music
Sturdy as a beam I lay
Unable to grasp at anything
It's just noise
Sweaty day, shivering nights-juxtaposed
It's like living on Mercury
In decomposition like a basket of rotten lemons
Past conversations crush their
weight against my open ribs
No parent teacher or friend
told me how all consuming the sensation would be...
Dazed eyes staring through
disheveled blinds,
I was dropping rose buds off the
second floor balcony in the night
They hit the scratchy asphalt
like a gentle meteor shower
Monotonous nights replay
the same phases
That moon...
A face splashing
from gibbous to crescent
Waning on my malady
Always stirring like a steady torch
Mar 1, 2018
Mar 1, 2018 at 2:40 AM UTC
He had a bag.
The books he packed in the sack on his back
Gave substantial sustenance to open his eyes to the sequins
To him this was indispensible.
More and more he stuffed into the sack on his back
Wiser was he but heavier his baggage became.
The clothes he packed in the sack on his back
Kept him secure and safe, like superman under his cape.
The more he brought the better he felt
The more he had the better he felt
Comfortable was he but heavier his baggage became.
The liquor he packed in the sack on his back
Helped with the pain of perseverance
And the acknowledgement of self-alteration
As slowly as he was transformed by the rucksack on his back
Began a man now a creature, a lost cause with no features.
Sorrow hidden and demons remained as heavier his baggage became.
But as he strained to stay standing with the bag on his back
His view of the stunning sequins distorted,
Disappearing in the storm was the beauty of it all
The struggle with the unnecessary weight was the squall
That ultimately ruined whatever beauty he believed in.
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 8:24 PM UTC
encamped on a barren savanna
a formaldehyde trick laid
beneath a palace of red canvas
carcasses of Noah's Ark
left for a menagerie of men
a spectacle of meat and bone
the tides of oddities come crashing
against the shores of spectators
the earth opens its hands to carry
the rails that lead an entourage of
grandeur at the ring master's ordinance
God's children in satin and sequins
Devil's work bared in ink and blood
ladies and gentlemen!
wooden pews for the congregation
occupied by followers seeking refuge
in the sacred acts of manipulation
enchantment for children
necromancy for those who walk
with hearts no longer beating
for the world they once knew
prepare to be amazed!
tight ropes are spun into webs
painted skin become prisms
nature's anomalies turned
into golden mythologies
figments of A Vision
brought to life by an apparition
the most extravagant extravaganza!
and the world burns anew
contemporary tales are told through
a splendor of color and brilliance
in a palace of red canvas
lay the corpses of humanity's finest
a formaldehyde trick
of preservation and deception
come one come all!
an asylum for those consumed
a sanctuary for those comforted
by the art of celebrated illusion
an institution built on maneuvering
the depths of every man's heart
welcome to the circus
sit back and enjoy the show!
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 6:49 PM UTC
I want to be buried
beside the river
that drowns you.
-
The way the sky sits.
Our sleeves
wrapped in wind.
I kiss your lips.
You are my end.
-
Sequins and swans
on the dress of
the universe.
I want to be warmed
by the galaxy's grasp.
-
You are my water:
You move beside
and against me.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 2:01 AM UTC
She puts the Drag in "Drag Queen"
A handbag fiend, full of lipstick
syringes sequins
kleenex and a ***** trick
Metal bells tin rattle
at the edges of her words and white milk curds
--A Cursive of Sensation--
in the girl's bathroom
Mirror Mirror on the Wall
asks "what kind of man are you?"
Marie can throw a stone and always take down two
Mascara leaves ***** streaks
down cotton ball cheeks
sitting on the floor of the stall bang banging her head against the wall
She lets it go again
Nine lives, nine times out of ten
At work, at home
And back to the hospital again
Oct 29, 2011
Oct 29, 2011 at 10:20 PM UTC
I am such
a *******
******
Been fanning the flames
of my flamboyant faggotry
since April 1990
when I strutted from the caverns
of my mother's....
nevermind,
I'm never touching one of those.
My childhood is exemplified
by late-night espionage treks,
sneaking through my sister's side
of our bedroom
maximized by youthful perspective,
each step of mine garnering more
taut gravity than the next,
finally reaching the Holy Grail:
her Barbie collection.
In the fourth grade, I drew
my interpretations of those
beautiful, diamond-infested drag queens
that rained feathers and sequins
upon one drought of an existence,
the adults framing my tolerance
as a smut-stained abomination.
Now people ponder
why I'm so overt
with my gaydom.
Why argue with your
nostalgia-hemmed family friend
over the cultural significance
of the Barbra Streisand Album,
or gladly sit through marathons
of 1980s ****** camp classics?
It's the kid in me.
Something lost for an era
in a washing tub
of middle school torture tactics,
heavy breathing
over hiding something
so natural.
And a few years of that
are **** stifling enough
for this gigantic ******
Apr 29, 2010
Apr 29, 2010 at 10:54 AM UTC
There’s a tiny turquoise sequin that lies
on my black and white bathroom tile
a tiny piece of you, Sea Queen
poised only for me
Sea Queen, it’s by that towel you last used
the same one I used
Sea Queen, I’ll try to explain
my chronicles in nautical miles
before I’m forced to die
with my sequin shoes on
but, I hallucinate land and I sail to drown
in your gown of now intangible sequins
I wouldn’t mind, Sea Queen,
if my eye’s palette could handle the paillettes’
reflection through a sea of sequins
but instead it’s holograms I chase
they’re a part of me and I guard them carefully
like your sequin that lies
on my white bathroom tile
next to the pink towel you used
before your heart resembled a crumpled piece of paper
and I got distracted by the sequins, Sea Queen.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC