Posted on 11/24/2003 9:52:48 AM PST by January24th
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Pink flyswatter
Archeologists dream
of discovering the meaning
of strange implements
in a tip, where the leavings
of civilization reveal
the layers of disconnect
between the museum and
the ritual of disregard.
So somebody should swat
that damned fly,
drawn by the scent
and the languid liquidity
of feminine humidity,
The curling scent of pink
musk candles sweet iced tea ,
perfumed sweat and the tray
of beauty supplies,
The snip of shears and sly asides
slow talking past a fast joke,
keeping it clean for the little pichers,
who nontheless have big eared themselves
into more than they want to know,
about their mothers
and the hint of revelation in laughing eyes
that slide into their own corners
to meet and acknowledge what we share
in the corners of each others’ lives.
The fly hasn’t the wit to land
which reminds us all of the man
to whom one of us once lost her heart ,
tho he went banging aimlessly
at a window of his own choosing
to give it up upon the sill of
lost opportunity,
but intact for all that.
spared the indignity
of the pink swat, for which
there was something to be said
but no dared.
The dragon mouthed diffuser
exhales upon the damp
and freshly coloured hair,
With a megamouth monstrous roar,
of something vaguely dangerous
looking for all the world
to be a torture ready for application
and someone asks if a visitor from
another planet looked
in and saw the instruments
would they be able to decide
what was happening to the one
on the receiving end
of all this weaponry and who would
be the victim and who would victimise
perhaps surmising that
this would be a ritual
consecrated by sacred pink
and the sacrifice of flies.
And we agree they’d probably think
that the machinery was supposed to teach
the innocent about love and such things
and as best as the alien scholars might discern
perhaps they would decree with assurance
on earth this is how they learn.
Wounded
My cat has
the genetic code
of a goddess,
and the claws of
temporal queen
which should
remind anyone
inclined
to apotheosis
of regression
toward the mean.
brought up
the by-product
of middle class malaise
and bowling alley mentality
i pictured respectability
as a country club
under an august moon
What a surprise.
Irony curls around
everything I see,
more is less,
less is more and the
plot hangs in between.
Auteur, actor, critic of the scene
we are staged and set
something less than central
but more than scenery.
calling our own curtains down
or pulling our own strings,
Yin and yang, ain’t no big thing,
the masque of tragicomedy,
has been and will always be,
the seen and the unseen affect but
unavoidable I suppose, the broad theme,
so what we are is somewhat less
than what we think
and more as we are seen,
a little more than imagery
but somewhat less than real.
we take our place
in the barely noticed moment left
on the cutting room floor,
or dispatched into the ether with
the casual stroke of a key.
delivering our lines perfectly
to an indifferent audience and yet
we know them all by heart and
we recite them just as written
but intended for another scene.
the press of time and delivery
leaves our best lines edited
out for sometimes we are more
than we should say and less
than we should mean.
I guess its ironic that
more or less the drama on the wing
reminds us that although the play’s the thing,
we aren’t the lines that we remember
but those that we forget.
and now the crew is sweeping up
the lines and cues and prompters dues
more or less eagerly awaiting the reviews,
and all the whispering players out of time,
say good night hoping its not out of line
5&10
Want is the value added
transaction that accrues
meaning to the leavings
in the flea market stall
I have my own old
chipped teacup
of experience
for that matter,
but I’d rather pay a little
for another’s fall from grace
than part with my own.
Wow that's good.
Millefiore
I lost it in the Ufizi
between the span
Of Titian and Tintoretto
numbed by painters
and the low light
accommodations
to preservation, stumbling
into an artfull hall,
and finding I preferred
the open-sided vista
and the air of the loggia
presenting possibilities
of escape from
the claustrophobia
of the gallery dark
layers of civilizations’
accused condemned and exalted .
I wouldn’t dare to aspire
to the walls of the Buontalenti,
and abandoned the optomistic
auto guide inside to its virtue
of understanding everything
between reason and result
"che gelida manina "
the painters hand
indexed and numbered
patronised by hope.
Artificial flavour
Esperanto’s civil tongue
misses the lingua franca
fracas, finding regularity
of sound and syntax superior
to the unrefined
grunt of expression;
artificial sweetener that
just misses the flavour
and fools the taste
so while I look
for my salt substitute
I think I’ll try
to learn klingon.
odalisque
every docent recites
the dutiful ditty of the tour
taking the words
as they are given
for her hour
of interpretation,
and doing it
for art’s sake,
perhaps dimly envying
the sensual lighting
of an ordinary girl
made model, seeing
marthe is beautiful in
the same different way
everyday and wondering
if it is a trick but keeping
her unscripted thoughts
inside the lines
for heaven’s sake.
My love whispers
in blue shadow
of secrets soft
in a velvet dream
a murmuring lost
in a sapphire sky
life without you
bentfeather
mood rings
my moon
in dark crystal
shadow, shaped
more by its red level
rays, than its high
cold silver flurries.
been reading my fav, Dorothy Parker lately. So this isn't so much a frame of mind as a pitiful nod to my inner b**ch.LOL
Moue
Her lips were permanently pursed
because he left her so well off,
but I don’t think they got that way
whistling at construction workers.
or dreaming of the ardour of payday.
tho time had no worthier endeavour
than to render her loveliness clever,
passed over in youth by beauty and wit
still it was something for which to be proud
that age found her so well endowed.
WOW you are on a roll. Good work all of it.
got distracted and didn't finish posting last night. Is this a document dump? LOL
threnody
When I was young I loved dispute
and no premise was too cute
that I would not dare to refute
the beggar or his question.
So my love once to me
offered this suggestion
“You cannot live without love” he said
to which I laughed and offered that
love was merely decoration
for the sheltered and the fed
a hat was a hat for all of that
just cover for the head
the feather but substantiation.
and tho the years have moved along
my sentences have lacked conviction
still I wish I could repent
the certainty of my elision,
But I am here and my love is gone
So I was right and he was wrong.
LOL You're funny!!
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