"tabloid" poems
I log into the network of my self-esteem,
To see the hearts and the wows and the laughs flooding in.
A simple 'like' wouldn’t cut it anymore
‘Likes’ were so 2010, even 2010 was bored.
‘Cause that’s the zeitgeist of the age, you see,
A tendency to wear hearts on sleeves.
Loves and kisses are a dime a dozen,
With a million friends and followers double.
National debates and social justice petitions,
Real crises, distorted renditions.
High definition photos of disaster zones
Flash up against cat videos on every smart phone.
Snapchat filters do not lie,
Just tell a story of hours gone by;
Selecting the perfect background, the ideal shade
To express love on the dozen’th date.
But that’s the zeitgeist of the century,
A tendency to wear hearts on sleeves.
To document in minute detail, with extensive pictorial evidence
Clockwork days of humdrum nonchalance.
And perhaps the generation that came before
Would call it vanity, vainglory, or something more.
But it ain’t like they were without their sins,
We didn’t invent tabloid columnists.
And now that we are at the end,
Let me sign off with this request:
Like, comment, and share your love
Let your heart fall out of your shirt cuff.
Sep 26, 2018
Sep 26, 2018 at 1:53 AM UTC
Dear Trusting Nurse-Maid, must we Speculate
The Favours your Leader asked has mulled
Far healing cry a tearful Reprobate
And supposed Cheerful Innocence has dulled
As soon as the Red Tabloid goes to Sin
And whips the Pink Horse we all fantasy
Your Prince suddenly squeezes on a Whim
Which the Next Frustration will testify
I envy you all. Despite Fashion's Change
Like Solemn Dakinis prayed for Support
Cry the Call for War; And within a Range
Mark him a Target then file my Report.
I have lost that War. And the Battle as well
Yours straight to Heaven; Mine a Journey's Hell.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 3:08 AM UTC
The mannequin faceless,
Clothed in gold
With hands pandering svelte,
Remains an admired inanimate,
Albeit, atop whispers to a girl,
A 4-foot flower 3-feet my right,
Fretting and stumped;
Extrinsic a label – “undesirable.”
The mannequin faceless,
Her and hollow –
A towering nose above, stands
Opaque ivory, scarred come
Synonymous eyes with a symmetrical
Soul, assumed plastic perfection
And more importantly,
Soon to be sale.
The mannequin faceless
Convinced her new friend,
Her lesser, lopsided,
And natural not-so counterpart
To consume,
“Eat me, “eat me,” “eat it all,”
And then, “binge some more.”
The mannequin faceless
SCREAMS,
“BUY!” Amongst the other torments –
Born both fingers that can’t move and
The thumbs that shuffle, “One’s,”
To the girl that was never,
“Good enough;” so shared the
Tabloid’s mouth.
The mannequin faceless demands
And DEMANDS nothing less than to
Buy, starve, suffer and sacrifice
So that every “broken body,”
May embody polymer, and for a price,
A not so fair trade whilst
Considering old man gold,
The curator of conundrum
And the plastic he’s created.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 8:59 AM UTC
An airplane crashes into an uncharted island and hundreds of people die in the burning debris, and somewhere a group of boys and girls are taking selfies as they stand next to a burning office building.
Thousands of teenagers sit on the couch and eat ice cream until the buttons on their pants explode off.
Kids light themselves on fires as if they were monks from the Tiananmen Square, trying to gain acceptance, their dreams of stardom translated through a series of YouTube comments.
We can't afford books for college because the tuition is ridiculous, but these glossy tabloid magazines are only a few bucks; pick one to set the course of your life.
Middle-aged people spend their lives indoors, away from the thirsty, hungry, withering children, and check how many likes did their photos receive on their smartphones.
Pornographic images in front of our tired faces, our eyes locked to the screen and we do not blink as our memories become embedded with objectification.
So we don't look up and see the chaos transpiring.
Cat memes and colorful gifs hold our attention while our parents slave away at their boomerang-shaped desks, trapped in clustered cubicles.
I saw a post on Facebook of a girl who was sexually assaulted at a house party and now her name was being hashtagged and kids were posing in photographs, laying on the floor, legs and arms sprawled out, left and right, trying to mimic the injustice.
We swipe right to find our future hookups, but what if our future husbands and wives were on the left?
Society spends millions of dollars on drinks to numb our conscience, until our brain cells are wretched like the homeless guy on the street corner drinking liquor from a coffee mug.
Israel and Palestine battle each other day after day while our generation gossips about Solange Knowles beating up Jay-Z with her patent leather purse as if that news conquers every other bit of information out there.
The world will always be corrupt, but it suffers more from the apathy that belongs to us.
Jun 24, 2016
Jun 24, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
Harvey sees the sun for the first time
without history--
the worn leather, unshined shoes in closet,
the ex-girls off the telephone--
the beams blow kisses, taunt, and beckon.
Harvey folds a paper with half a sentence
and puts it in his pocket--
"I'm too callused to love, too empty to be, a void..."
he knows the end but doesn't write it.
Harvey dreams of calm waters,
salt, sundresses, and eager toenails hammered into sand.
A waitress's reflection in the coffee shop glass shakes Harvey from trance.
"Another cup?" she asks with a crowbar forehead.
Harvey stares at her wrinkles, prying for exposition--
while her voice melts over innocent questions.
Harvey thinks about taking her home.
She'd talk of her ex-husband.
They didn't have kids, but she wanted them.
Harvey couldn't give her kids,
but he could give her him--
a favor.
She wouldn't die alone.
"Did you hear me? Coffee?"
He'd make her feel tall.
She'd find new, fast-talking, book-n-tabloid-munching friends.
Harvey would nod and "oooh" and "ahhh".
Harvey would itch for wrecking ball.
The waitress pours the cup despite his silence.
"If you need anything, let me know."
Harvey nods.
The coffee shop contains the hustle of a mad race track.
Elderlies at the bar, youngsters on the tile floor,
moms and dads hoping to choke with each bite of doughnut.
Harvey doesn't pay much attention to the other patrons.
They are reds, yellows, blues, and noise to him.
He unfolds the piece of a paper and writes,
"I'm too callused to love, too empty to be,
a void in search of a void to sink and share
the blackness."
He leaves a tip on the table.
He pays the cashier.
He leaves the colors and the noise.
He crumples the paper, and gives
it to the wind outside.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 12:43 AM UTC
Finding something on the road
And serving it for dinner
Buying dresses far too small
And thinking you look thinner
Solar powered submarines
Broken ribs or ruptured spleens
Driving cars and drinking beers
Lightbulb licking, bad ideas
Knowing where you shouldn't be
And being there despite
Going out in thunderstorms
To fly your iron kite
Sharing needles with a shark
Going to Mansfield after dark
Setting fire to someone's ears
Telemarketing, bad ideas
Not deploying gaffer-tape
When doing D.I.Y.
Believing the implausible
While branding truth a lie
Replying to Nigerian Princes
**** bleach and ******* rinses
Tabloid papers touting fears
Voting UKIP, bad ideas
Impersonating ******
Before nineteen forty-five
Catching a train on Sunday
And assuming you'll arrive
Turning lights on with your nose
Eating food that moves or glows
Listening to Britney Spears
Marmite Pringles, bad ideas
**
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC
The news is a c#%&
That son of a b@#$!
They don't give a f$%!
about talking s&#@
That girl is a s!@$
and that dude's a d!@&
But I blame this boll@&$s
On tabloid pr!@&s
Apr 9, 2025
Apr 9, 2025 at 5:27 AM UTC
Like sugar from a shaker, snow falls on Saul the baker
delivering steamy biscuits from the shop he calls his home
to a drafty run down mansion where the princess on her pension
can be testy with her tension, hence she's living on her own.
Today he took her order, "One fresh bagel, for a quarter
'cause I haven't seen the likes of one since I left my childhood home".
Well he'd never baked a bagel, but he's not one to finagle
and wanting just to please her, finds a recipe from Rome.
And he's thinking to himself, "I must be way out of mind~
no woman's gonna want a baker's life"
but he carries deep inside his heart, the will to be a friend
hoping someday she will come around and one day be his wife.
So to win her deep affection he packs up his best confection
takes his chances on the back roads, now iced over in the storm.
Finds her waiting in the foyer with her thrifty 5 cent lawyer
complaining 'bout the day old bread and... "this bagel isn't warm!"
So..... he heats it on the fire, 'cause her heart is his desire
but she won't accept the bagel for it's not quite the right form
And he's thinking to himself, "I must be way out of mind
no woman gonna want a baker's life"
but he carries deep inside his heart, the will to be a friend
hoping someday she will come around and one day be his wife.
So he runs back to his bagel board and pounds the dough and rolls a cord
and shapes the perfect circle to a bagel lovers dream,
He boils and then he bakes it and to her mansion then he takes it
piping hot but now she wants it with churned butter from fresh cream!
Well he's starting to get antsy but he knows the farmer, Clancy
whose butter is fresh-churned and known by counties far and wide.
He heads out to the pasture and he buys what he is after
and returns to find, 'tis so unkind, the princess, she had died.
The baker in his stricken state swallows the bagel off the plate
he calls the cops, pulls out the stops and serves the day old bread.
He gives the details more than once of how he ate the evidence
and though he thought his story bought, they arrested him instead.
"Tis a likely story", was the only thing he heard
although they'd bought his baked goods, they could not buy his word.
"The Baker is a Butcher", is what the tabloid said,
"better to take your bagel cold than take it in the head."
But all was not as it appears, she owed the butcher in arrears
and when they went to check her craw they found a hunk of mutton.
It ended all without a trial, the butcher he did reconcile
and posted "Pay the butcher now and do not to be a glutton."
And Saul was thinking to himself, " I must be way out of mind",
no woman's gonna want a baker's life",
but he carried deep inside his heart the will to be a friend
and it turned rather nicely as she willed him in the end.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 8:55 PM UTC
On the first day of Christmas
Old Rupert gave to me
Papers full of right wing bull ****
On the second day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the third day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the fourth day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me high price for comedy channels, ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the fifth day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me pay rises for Wall Street, high price for comedy channels, ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the sixth day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me copyright enfringements, pay rises for Wall Street, high price for comedy channels , ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the seventh day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me FOX FOX FOX, copy right enfringements, pay rises for Wall Street, high price for comedy channels, ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the eighth day of Christmas
Old Rupert gave to me world news in the eyes of the rich, FOX FOX FOX, copyright enfringements, pay rises for Wall Street, high price for comedy channels, ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the ninth day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me expensive live sports events, world news in the eyes of the rich, FOX FOX FOX, copyright enfringements, pay rises for Wall Street, high price for comedy channels, ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the tenth day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me problems with channel 10, expensive live sports events, world news in the eyes of the rich, FOX FOX FOX,copyright enfringements, pay rises for Wall Street, high price for comedy channels, ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the eleventh day of Christmas old Rupert gave to me lots of canned laughter, problems with channel 10, expensive live sports events, world news in the eyes of the rich, FOX FOX FOX, copyright enfringements, pay rises for Wall Street, high prices for comedy channels,crappy tabloid journalism, no more free to air systems and papers full of right wing bull ****
On the twelfth day of Christmas
Old Rupert gave to me trying to put a cost on YouTube, lots of canned laughter, problems with channel 10, expensive live sports events, world news in the eyes of the rich, FOX FOX FOX, copyright enfringements, pay rises for Wall Street, high prices for comedy channels, ****** tabloid journalism, no more free to air Simpsons and papers full of right wing bull ****
And that is the pain we suffer under Rupert
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
City slickers born to tumble
will never make your mountain rumble,
take me to the parts that matter
in amongst the titter tatter
the coffee table ilks and dramas
cotton caftans and silk pyjamas
humming cars that cough and splutter
silver coins lost in the gutter
tabloid men in sharp pressed suits
trample down the fallen fruits
nothing sacred in this old town
except a peptic ulcer and a furrowed frown.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
*magdalene just wanked off st. peter, and i’m like...
magdalene just wanked off st. peter.,
the pope was caressed by tabloid headlines...
and jesus did a miracle streak of shit-smear in leather,
gagged the dsm iv into s & m translation;
i used to play the guitar once... but i got choreographed
into a back-up dancer / mimer role -
and then i sold 1million singles in the first hour of the realese.*
self-love amiss is a potato patch of the revelatory,
self-love quotes from what the greeks missed
in threes: the furies stagnated into the eye of the graeae;
i can write about my **** life
in the same way you write to idealise your **** life,
9/5 on the black mustang... who ran out from the better’s
sardine packing of expected, tight...
he’s got life... not a reminder of a cloned bricklayer
for a bricklayer just to suggested a bowtie of an accent:
i will not make england my home just because i can speak it...
i’ll speak english so well i’ll make the english feel
like lower class... if not migrants;
and i did... some boy from cyprus thought i was posh
enough to practice conservatism at a private school teaching
that mathematics using a, b c, d, semi-colon... ah... grammar;
unless of course it was all rather unnecessary,
then i abide by the law of knock down ginger...
and walking beneath the a12’s batty man’s legs sign for gills.
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
Tabloid, describes every speck of ****
that seeks a global audience
from your kid's kindergarten blog
to the Rockefeller save face
Yet, these big players are the worst tools
Richest person, never spending
except when it comes to public relations
Nowadays it's damage control before it even started
So just in case there's another Ludlow Massacre
26 men, women, and children, all dead
the people are trained to believe the trusted news sources
fake an eyewitness report using your wife
like the ambassador's daughter posing as a princess
to spark the Gulf War
There was no evidence of killing babies in a hospital
Just sensational
We've been molded for over a hundred years
to have global views
and distance keeps us from our like minded dissenters
We're dancing to the same undulating dissonance
We're losing our local centers and rhythms
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 11:18 PM UTC
Everywhere I go
They throw roses
And love letters
Bright flashing bulbs
The tabloid circus
I'm a hero
I can walk on water
They want me at their charity
They want me to date their daughter
Paparazzi press
Unison- applauders
I said nothing funny
But they want my autograph
All the potential wannabes
Who claim they know my soul
The stupid adoration
Accumulated lull
The hippie-mystic groupies
Who want to get me high
The young married wife
Who shares my zodiac sign
The cop who lets me go
When I want to get caught
The journalist and his
Unrelenting cameraman
The sickly-devoted, naive
Screaming fan
The occasional stalker
Assassin-like scare
The philosophical ******
The devil-may-care
Crowd always willing to
Get slaughtered by celebrity
Until the stardust melts
And I'm no one else but me
Personal interest groups
Who always love a clown-
Now take everything above
And turn it all around
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 11:37 PM UTC
twitters and tweets
pictures are sweets
keeping you hooked
on the tabloid elites
just out of bed, hair on his head
matted and messy, way better than said
your public is waiting and verging on vexed
"stay tuned for more selfies", you casually text.
stand by the mirror and pose for your followers
leading them into the worship of men
drawn to the sight of your bare naked belly
this bowl full of jelly is quaking, and then
this one, her *** just after the baby
she's worked out like crazy, perhaps she just clazy
spray-tanned and bare butted
tattooed and nare studded
back in the crack but her tact has been share gutted
no worries, it all comes around
in some hotel bathroom you click at your Iphone
like all of the rest of us, yet so alone
trying to snap one both **** and manly
the wife beater t-shirt, the boxers and phone
we can't really blame you, your business, your life quest
but fashion is funny right down to the jewels
both earlobes sport earrings, just like mommy dearest
whatever your pleasure, some little girl drools
and she scantly clad there, for all of her viewers
could not give a **** about "ahhers" or "ew'ers"
but don't stop, you're on top and making your money
and laughing right back, since we're also quite funny
we once wore our hair all pulled up or with mullet
thought no one was laughing, we knew we were cool
and now all the stuff which we wore gone forever
or passed off as costume, just vintage, old school
where somebody bought it from some smelly thrift shop
and wore it again with a sense of true style
the polaroid pictures we took at the bus stop
that camera is back and will be for a while
Stand at the mirror and smile for your camera
not really getting that folks can be odd
some are perverted, while others disturbed
and still others are cranky and smelling like cod.
Someday you'll grow up, a mommy or daddy or maybe
a granny once shaking her *****
or maybe a pop-pop
and scoff a their moptop
and laugh with your grandkids
it all comes around.
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 9:12 PM UTC
It saddens me to see
the way my country bleeds
after leeches in the media
create frenzies just to feed
Xenophobic journalists
poke angry mobs with pens not sticks
distorting truths on paper
so they can get their kicks
Who knows now what the truth is
behind the stories that we read
Sensationalised ********
to create a headline lead
So before you jump aboard
the jingoist express
ask yourself who feeds
on the freedom of the press
Jun 5, 2010
Jun 5, 2010 at 5:15 PM UTC
She’s a go-getter,
A real achiever,
Ambition burns her,
Dreams filled with fever.
Lipstick, red and slick,
Ears, gold spins and spirals,
Hair, long and beautifully curled,
Skin, supple and smoothly pearled.
Neck, exposed and proud,
Shoulders, open and marbled,
Chest, creamed and perfumed,
Hips, mini-skirted and revealed.
Posterior, raised and inviting,
Interior, poised and excited,
Exterior, rosy and aroused,
Inferior, dirty and discarded.
Money showers her at the town table,
Attention applauds her in the tabloid papers,
Men wine and dine her up and down the land,
Silken beds caress her shapely legs and soft hands.
Flaunted,
Used,
Abused,
Dreams sold.
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 6:46 PM UTC
What is beauty?
An ideal stuffed down our throats,
That makes us scrutinise reflections
To trace every single flaw and imperfection in our very being?
I've long since stopped searching for beauty in the mirror,
It was a loosing battle, no mater what empty compliments were spat my way.
Instead I've come to think of beauty as freedom,
As liberation from the shackled thoughts of society,
And it's come to mean so much.... more.
Beauty isn't in the angular curves of malnourished models,
The photoshopped perfection of tabloid queens.
No.
Beauty is in muted sunsets,
Colours thrown up as homage to a whispered day,
Cradles by clouds and wisps of white.
Beauty is in the moments that make you itch for a pen,
A brush, a lens: anything to preserve the moment
In perfect clarity so that you can feel again the breath thieving awe.
Beauty is in woven fingers and passionate touches,
Love shouted through the twitch of a mouth and the softening of eyes.
Beauty is caught in the second you stop, look up
And dig your nails into a world that spins too quickly,
Seizing every day that flies your way.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 3:15 PM UTC
Today we have the labeling of people groups.
Yesterday we had the suggestion of an inherent disposition to dishonesty and violence in some groups.
Tomorrow we will have the careful counting of individuals and the placing of individuals into each people group.
But today,
today we have the labeling of people groups.
For those of you who are new here, we recommend this period drama underlining racial differences with a subtle suggestion of inferior intellect in some groups indigenous to warmer climes.
And here we have a persuasive and tabloid friendly research paper that hints that children of mixed race tend to struggle in school. You'll be relieved to see that it hasn't any distracting data.
And on the shelf beneath you'll see there's a picture book version for younger children.
Over here is the arbitary divide between us and them, with a useful circle of arguments to differentiate ourselves from others.
Here we have colour coded lables to more easily distinguish between people groups. Yes, that's correct, we have three labels: white, black and, a recent addition which is now available for added distinction, rainbow.
Oh yes, when engaging in any discussions, for your own safety please ensure you wear these ear defenders.
To ensure a free flow of visitors we have erected large signs in three languages marking where charity at home ends. Yes, after rigorous focus group testing we have selected the English language in three font sizes.
We are coming to the end of this orientation tour. Please note the subtle but effective shedding of compassion for those who appear or sound different to us. This underpins the necessary disregard for the rights of others that we assume for ourselves and for those like us. It is almost imperceptible I think you'll agree.
But the priority for today, as I say, is the labeling of people groups.
No questions.
Shall we begin?
Oct 19, 2017
Oct 19, 2017 at 2:16 PM UTC
In my next life I want a pomeranian puppy
& to stand again on the Roaches
& to be able, unlike now, to swim
& to (once more) fence on Thursdays & tap dance on Saturdays
In my next life I want to see a Hurricane
with my own eyes & write a song about it
In my next life I want to be an astronaut
remarking how in Space, there is no rain
& to read tabloid newspapers
in Orbit for the gossip & want this
In my next life I do not want
to be a poet, unless it means
unlike now, being with you
because without you, these poems mean nothing.
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 7:23 AM UTC
Say what?
She said,
And I said
"What".
She giggled,
And I blushed under my beard,
Wrote a song for her,
And burned it in my head.
"He's a one trick pony, I said.
I was talking to myself."
I pointed at the man in question,
Gracing the tabloid cover.
She laughed,
Cascading harps
Strummed by the wind.
Red hair,
Tied back,
Pink lips,
Freckled nose,
Gold and green eyes.
The check out girl who stole my soul.
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
Drastic words taken from a manic world,
Have you heard that what they print is labelled on you.
Its over now,
As the sun begins to rise,
Tomorrows world,
Always forgets the man that dies.
Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there.
Reality later,
Reality later,
Editorial journalists they don't care cause the paper sells...
Tabloid Mess!
Celebrity taker,
Paparazzi will follow you everywhere,
So you want to be in the paper?
Fame and fortune has its price that will tear.
Sold out now,
This world exclusive news,
Read all about it now,
Aliens land on chrismas eve!
Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there,
Reality later,
Reality later,
Editorial journalists they dont care cause the paper sells...
Tabloid Mess!
They deserve it now,
All of those printed lies,
War of words,
From the media moguls!
Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there.
Reality later,
Reality later,
Editorial journalists they dont care cause the paper sells...
Tabloid Mess!
Reality later,
Reality later,
Fiction from the truth printed there.
Reality later,
Reality later,
Its all a bit of a joke laugh the press so swindled in you.
Tabloid Mess!
O'Reily@08072015
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 12:28 AM UTC
My dear I’m afraid we will always be
Nothing more than chocolate and cheese.
Whilst you’re caviar, diamonds and fine Persian silks
I’m a 20p tabloid, sliced bread and skimmed milk.
Your standards: astronomical, but I’m easily pleased!
My pet, I’m afraid we’re just chocolate and cheese.
Yes - we’re simply chocolate and cheese.
Ask your sow of a mother, I’m sure she’ll agree.
She’ll tell you I’m feral and my manner’s uncouth
But doesn’t she know? She’s the living proof!
But you’re not much of a fighter, scared to disagree
Unlike me. We are merely chocolate and cheese.
Chocolate and cheese, we’re buds far apart
You love with your head, I think with my heart.
You keep your hands clean (whilst I get mine *****
And agree to whatever whilst I’m getting shirty.
If I’m daringly dairy, then you’re gluten free.
Too frightened to argue why we’re chocolate and cheese.
So, chocolate and cheese we will always be
From this moment on for eternity.
You’ve not made a case - is it because mine’s rested?
You’re too scared to fail whenever you’re tested.
You'll never be bold and explicit like me.
So forever you’re chocolate and forever I’m cheese.
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 2:52 PM UTC
Left the stage.
Exited stage left.
Her swan song lifted spirits.
Perfect performance.
Drama filled.
Last breath then she was gone.
Her bolstered tutu puffed up proudly.
Released her wings.
Trumpeters played, then she was gone.
One last gasp, she was done.
To her audience a revelation.
The flowers they threw fell in stems.
Time and time again.
An apparition that still remains.
Daily the stems of falling flowers lay.
When bought forth the janitor comes to clean.
The flowers have gone if you know what I mean.
Another supernatural scene.
Her name headlined all the papers.
Was front page news.
Now just the ballerina who passed on the stage.
Not even a paragraph given.
The headlines for the tabloid's now, are only for the living.
(c) Livvi
Sep 11, 2015
Sep 11, 2015 at 4:29 PM UTC