"showgirl" poems
lost in a maze of gazes;
lured
to the pool by the sound; Sondheim
sung badly in a nasal twang;
cught in her lace negligee one more time;
we give the old women the benefit
of the doubtful proposition; if granny
wants to get tied
to on the bedpost - yet again;
the gallant refrain from that old song
is remade the kpop way & tuned in to
the drag subculture; everyone u know;
the prostitution used to be better; maybe
there were once better prostitutes, what
I can see is unpleasantly stink eyed; hos
used to have class before they could
switch genders back & forth; that's some
millennial **** the first celebrity I ever
became aware of was Christine Jorgensen, from the newspaper story about a man who had surgery to turn himself into a woman; a patently impossible task; in the picture in the newspaper he had on a bouffant wig & big sequin ***** working as a showgirl in Vegas in its heyday, so she was already well-known; I always thought that bit of trivial information would come in handy one day: never did
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 7:22 PM UTC
Back in upstate New York
she was a girl with stars in her eyes
She hopped a freight out westward
And tried Vegas on for size
Off strip hotels, little shows
Young Delores danced with glee
She was working in Las Vegas
the home of Jubilee
"Do you have a minute folks?'
"Do you need tickets for a show?"
"Will you be in town tonight?"
"There's a place you need to go"
"Will you be in town tomorrow?"
"We could send you for a meal"
"You just have to see our condo's"
"It's a real fantastic deal"
Twenty years upon the strip
Wearing fruit baskets on her head
Delores was a showgirl
Even though the shows were dead
She danced backup for lounge singers
She was with Wayne Newton for a while
She still had all the attributes
That made the tourists smile
"Do you have a minute folks?'
"Do you need tickets for a show?"
"Will you be in town tonight?"
"There's a place you need to go"
"Will you be in town tomorrow?"
"We could send you for a meal"
"You just have to see our condo's"
"It's a real fantastic deal"
Time went by as it always does
Her body said "No more"
Dancing in the big time shows
Had made her body sore
Options down in Vegas
For ex-showgirls were not good
But she wasn't going east again
Even though folks said she should
"Do you have a minute folks?'
"Do you need tickets for a show?"
"Will you be in town tonight?"
"There's a place you need to go"
"Will you be in town tomorrow?"
"We could send you for a meal"
"You just have to see our condo's"
"It's a real fantastic deal"
She didn't have the hands for dealing
The casino was her second home
But, she didn't want to waitress
She was just too old to roam
But in Vegas, there's a sub trade
One she had the smile for
She could still work in the casinos
And help get people through the door
"Do you have a minute folks?'
"Do you need tickets for a show?"
"Will you be in town tonight?"
"There's a place you need to go"
"Will you be in town tomorrow?"
"We could send you for a meal"
"You just have to see our condo's"
"It's a real fantastic deal"
Selling timeshares to the folks
Who come in all the time
They could get free shows and dinners
And it wouldn't cost a dime
Delores was still a show girl
But, it was not the same by far
But, she was still selling in Vegas
And Delores was still a star
"Do you have a minute folks?'
"Do you need tickets for a show?"
"Will you be in town tonight?"
"There's a place you need to go"
"Will you be in town tomorrow?"
"We could send you for a meal"
"You just have to see our condo's"
"It's a real fantastic deal"...
Feb 6, 2013
Feb 6, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
Does the makeup hide the tears
Painted faces masking fears
But underneath all the glitter
She has a heart of gold
Mornings serving coffee
In the street corner café
Nights she's there again
Turning tricks for extra pay
And can you see behind the costume
See the light within her eyes
Her home lies dark and vacant
She's leading double lives
Just a small town woman
Struggling to sustain
Just a casual showgirl
'Till the morning sun rises again
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 10:09 PM UTC
his baby blue buick
and ten gallon cowboy hat
made him the lonesome rodeo star
of Nantucket beach
but it was when he would sit by
the Charles River and play his banjo
for all the kind folk walking in the
summer sunshine hand in hand
walking neath the sycamores
and laughin sweet and free
that boy really shone true and beautiful
his played that banjo like it was part of his soul
it played him like it was alive
together they made such a lonesome sweet sound
that'd chill the hardest heart
he would sing till the summer moon had run its
trail chased by the stars in innocent game
he sang of the girl who had stole his heart
gone to Vegas or some such to be a showgirl
and live the bright lights and cheers
he sang of his mamma who cried for her wayward boy
he sang for the pretty girls
sunning themselves there by the banks of the Charles River
sweet sweet songs carefree and lovin
as he should be
he's there still
if you listen real close to that gentle stirring sound
of the trees in summer breeze
you can hear him sing you a sweet song
just to see you smile
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 2:06 PM UTC
Yesterday I lost a poem.
It took me hours to write.
So,has anyone seen a poem?
I titled it Aurora Borealis.
It was brief and beautiful,
Well written and insightful.
The poem was immaculate
Done in tribute to nature.
This is very weird I know,
Because it's never been done?
So pardon my action,
Result of my frustration.
So,if you see a green light,
Cocooned in ghostly neon,
Bordered in a frosty white dress,
Flash dancing across the sky,
Do have me informed at once.
Or sit back,watch and be amazed.
For those who need to know,
Aurora is like nature's showgirl.
Some call her the Northern light.
She appears when it's chilly cold,
When the night is quiet and starry,
She comes out like a luminous ghost.
IB-Poetry©
20/12/2018
Dec 21, 2018
Dec 21, 2018 at 1:52 AM UTC
My average means I don’t have to take final exams.
So my bachelor's degree is a finished product.
I cranked it out, all that’s left now is the walk (May 18th).
Let’s call it my nearly forgotten masterpiece.
My schedule says that I start a 1-year ‘master of public health’ degree in 38 days.
It was my mom’s idea. She said, “You need to keep active” (pre- med-school).
It sounds crazier to me now than it did last year, when I was accepted and agreed.
Now, I feel like some chary, aging showgirl who’s about to be hustled back on-stage.
But what’s life without massive compromise?
Anyway, don’t cry for me. I’m still sizing it all up, I’ll figure it out.
I suppose we’re all out there hustling.
It’s our response to slowing med-school admissions,
those glitches in the medical, industrial education complex
or that’s how the narrative’s shaped, anyway.
It’s not the additional work that bothers me, I’m regular worker bee,
It’s the perma-threat of loneliness.
I’m already packing. Leaving feels real
and I'm surfing this maudlin wave tonight—shading deep blue.
The simple march of time will take away friends I’ve grown to love.
We’ve allegorised and transformed one another by proximity.
I’ve really loved it here.
.
.
Songs for this:
Graduation (Friends Forever) by Vitamin C
Graduation Day by Tony Rivers & The Castaways
Apr 21, 2025
Apr 21, 2025 at 8:01 AM UTC
I am your showgirl,
the pretty one
with a sleigh-bell laugh,
whom spoke only when spoken to.
I am your accessory,
arms around my waist,
to add to an image
already destroyed by reputation.
I am the prize,
the trophy,
the girl you have touched
and the one you have kept.
I am your girl you rung
the morning after,
your selfish pleasure,
the first call
when you're in need of satisfaction.
I am your object,
your porcelain doll
with moon-shaped eyes,
you keep in a cabinet
for all to admire.
As not only was i beautiful
in your eyes,
but also possessed
a public attraction
worth using for yourself.
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 8:58 PM UTC
The Life of a Showgirl
Glitter is just dust
that learned to beg for attention.
The crowd loves the fire,
not the girl breathing the smoke.
I’ve bled in gowns worth more than rent.
Showgirls don’t sleep,
we just step out of view.
I bow so low the room flips upside down
and think about staying there.
The house always wins when the house is me.
Every encore’s just a prettier cage.
Applause is hunger wearing perfume.
I’ve been feeding it my spine for years.
Every standing ovation is an autopsy report—
cause of death: she was too good at her job.
I learned to stand still
so the aim would be easier.
The dress is breathtaking,
and I can’t breathe.
The pearls bruise softer in summer.
By fall, they know my throat’s shape.
By winter,
I forget I can take them off.
The life of a showgirl
is knowing the curtain call
and the execution order
sound exactly the same.
And I bow
until the curtain closes,
and I’m gone-
even I’m not sure
where I go.
Aug 15, 2025
Aug 15, 2025 at 3:05 PM UTC
it's called falling in love
but it's more like
the sudden stop
at the bottom
the organ-jarring
slam into
frigid water turned concrete
turned freeway
leading to the purest pain
and immaculate agony
of vulnerable viscera
and exhumed faith
and aren't i still a believer
when i spout blasphemy
like gagging bile
choking out your breath
erudite acidity of alacrity
from verbose confession
and didn't you warn me
of your limited vocabulary
when words have always
been my companion
how can you take their place
if you've never wrestled
an angel like Jacob
to steal a word from beyond
this holy of holies
grasping and groping
mute in darkness
still wet behind the ears
i still don't have the words
to quell your fear
of that one that lingers
on the tip of my tongue
threatening to jump out
and betray my cover
but you always see right through me
surgically slicing
to the heart of the matter
how is it not written
all over my face
when i've tattooed it across
the back of my eyelids
so i never can escape your face
who needs a sun
when in my core you've ignited
my own fission reactor
whose critical mass
is a capacity to love
and be loved
that you found splattered on
a highway
emotional roadkill
carrion long left to rot in
the baking sun
but who else would feed the raven?
the loneliness that gnaws
at me persistently
he'll never love you like that
like a three day weekend
and i'll never be like them
changing costumes more
than a washed up
Vegas showgirl
as used as my bones
and as looked at as my
naked body
people don't change
though you'll never admit it
until there is already
spaghetti on the wall
a broken dinner plate
and a shatter that reverberates
into my past and future
they're all the same
after all
but i think if i hadn't met you
if i hadn't loved you
i'd never know the weight
of four letters
to grind me to dust.
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
I'd like to think I'm cold and calculating and unwavering, sometimes I'd wished I was like the people who hurt me, always looking for the next, never understanding or having to retravel the damp, crushed paths of destruction that leaked from the soles of their shoes, never caring to turn and see the thick, salty metal smoke choking it's way through the light. But, I am a lover. A dreamer of only the most sweet, silver realities, realities that are, to most, wildest dreams. I write letters and excerpts, often to people I've never met, often in the position of who I dream to become, often like a madwoman. It terrifies me, how I so often go limp and dazzled by men like gods, on covers, who's voices lull my aching showgirl heart into an almost always fitful sleep, but that I can't get over ever, and I know he'll love me too one day, crying out my name in his virile, fiery tone, to the screeching excitement of electric guitars. Do you let yourself give in to your insanities? Can you claim them for your own, dance with them, let them burst free into your every other area of normalcy? I do, I can, I always have. I am the girl turning the corner, the flashing, fleeing green and red lights in the sky, the faint sound of applause you know is coming from somewhere where incredible things are happening. I've been the hate, and the sick, and the lust, I have hot blood and a heart, and they are pumping, always pumping.
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 2:24 AM UTC
Tonight, the moon is dressed
in lavender shadows, and
rhinestone starlight.
A showgirl dancing on
a windowsill, she tempts
a dreamer to shed inhibitions.
There’s no yesterday
or tomorrow at midnight.
Luna’s wink through the curtain
is a kiss without regrets.
Aug 16, 2025
Aug 16, 2025 at 4:36 PM UTC
I mean no disrespect, understand;
Larry Tate is a hell of a guy,
But if you can’t wrangle up a showgirl or ****** on short notice,
You have no business calling yourself an ad man.
Likewise, the Stephens kid gets results
(God only knows how he carries off
Some of the last-minute miracles he pulls out of his ***
But you gotta keep him away from the money clients;
Too skittish, too much of a loose cannon.
No, every agency needs a core principle,
A philosophy to anchor itself on;
You remember the first big campaign we did?
You call that a suit? Mine’s an Irving Freibush.
That was my baby, and let me tell you,
I didn’t need a focus group
Or some fifty-thousand dollar demographic study
To figure out if the ******* desk
The model was leaning against should be oak or cherry.
I knew it would work,
Because I knew what every ad man
(And preacher and politician, for that matter)
Worth a **** knows as well as he knows his own name;
That everyone, deep inside, feels they are not quite right,
That they’re a little slow, a little shabby,
A little less than their fellow man.
We just (quietly, mind you) reinforce that notion a bit,
And present them a shinier, newer band-aid.
Anyway, the ads worked like gangbusters,
And it always gave me the jollies that both Hef and Billy Graham
Each had a closet full of those suits.
Look, what we do isn’t rocket science or parlor tricks,
But a bunch of big black figures
At the bottom line of the ledger book?
Now that, boys and girls, is ******* magic.
Jan 24, 2018
Jan 24, 2018 at 12:12 PM UTC