Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Excerpt From Poem, Born Bad

So, I can't help but wonder, are there bad babies,
itsy-bitsy outlaws that knock over bottles,
or drop dirty diapers on the nursery room floor?
Do they threaten other tots by grabbing cherished toys,
crying, gimme that binky or the bear gets it?
Do they bite mommy's breast taking pleasure in her temporary pain,
nursing her sneaking suspicion that junior may have a mean streak?

Friday Night At The Fire Alarm

Boys drive,
street cruising muscle cars,
honking horns,
bar bounced for drunken brawls.
Tight vests and platform shoes,
hustle hot pants and sure bets,
with artless sweet talk,
and macho posing.

Girls dance,
on strobed floors, shameless flirts,
bumping hips,
blasted on Mad Dog shots.
Tempting fate, testing easy virtue,
young hearts crave carnal love,
with blow dried Farrah hair
and cherry glossed lips.

Getting down,
as D.J. spins funky soul,
boogie beat,
feeding frenzy of flesh driven.
Disco tech filled with latin swingers,
passionate pairs groove seventies style,
BeeGee heat on Friday night,
at The Fire Alarm.

Ava Adored

God was really cooking,
when he made this tasty dish,
a dark haired, scrumptious baby,
served on a southern wish.

Eyes that rival Venus,
deep cleft in her chin,
He left her barely legal,
a Carolina sin.

Ready for a challenge,
to pay the devil's dues,
murmur of mystique,
and cold hard hit of booze.

Snake bit by her charm,
a man won't mind the venom,
it smoothly slithers through
his bloodlines pulsing rhythm.

He'll go down for the count,
grasping at her waist,
fall through supple arms
with a smile on his face.

She'll laugh at her lost love.
She'll finish his last sip,
She'll smoke his Cuban stogie
and leave a lavish tip.

Plays with nasty big boys,
swears like salty sailors,
won't even draw the shades,
to camouflage her lovers.

Don't bring her home to mama.
She'll kill your mama dead.
One look at sultry Ava,
ma takes to her bed.

Mickey, Frank and Artie,
men with mighty guns,
Didn't pack the ammo,
when all was said and done.

Fair Barefoot Contessa,
Humphrey, Mr. Hughes.
Show Boat in the summer,
killer winter blues.

Silver image tarnished,
didn't mind the mess,
staged in heat and passion,
the girl had no regrets.

One hundred watts of smile,
one hundred fatal flaws,
a woman with a habit,
of sharpening her claws.

Never fool with Ava,
she's smoking hot and bound,
to put you in the mood,
then put you in the ground.

Monday, November 18, 2013

Rumor Mill

Rumors abound,
backs are for stabbing,
give me a name,
for slander or slashing.

Don’t be afraid,
to sling mud my way,
baby I’m ready,
to catch it and play.

You’ve got the dish,
the tittle-tattle,
now don’t be shy,
relinquish the prattle.

Sure you’ve got scruples,
I’ve got some too,
but isn’t it fun,
telling tales out of school.

Admit it, your sick,
of acting correct,
give me the goods,
we need to connect.

The dirt or the buzz,
schmooze til we drop,
you hear the latest,
go on, let it pop.

Tongues are for wagging,
so start jabbing sis,
got to give in,
it’s absolute bliss.

Talk can be cheap,
but I’m gonna pay,
my sweet little snitch,
now what do ya say?

Basement Boogie

She's a sexy stripper,
selling it to choice customers.

Wild rock and roll star,
ready to riff on her air guitar.

Belting out Billie's blues,
into a  broomstick microphone.

Swaying to Blue Suede shoes,
with Elvis the pelvis hip moves.

Big Band twirl tomato,
jiving on a jittery washing machine.

Undie clad super freak,
a secret safe with bashful brown mice.

She spins like a prima ballerina,
as daddy long legs spin silken webs.

Clanging copper water pipes,
adds percussion to musical poetry.

Weatherstripped windows.
buffer ear splitting decibels of sound.

Furnace sparks add to the heat,
as her frenzy builds to it's final scene.

Dancing queen saves the best,
for basement boogie nights.

Red Dress

No one could ignore her in the red dress. She would be seen, dancing between the rain drops. Her storm of resolve, raging.  Morning mists and evening skies were welcome. The rainy day girl raises her arms, then dives down too deep only to drift away on calm water. Rivers flood her every waking dream. Drink in all that is good and given. Mirrored ponds reflect indigo clouds falling and purple plumes rising. They meet and mingle as the stark song of a trumpeter swan is heard in a far-off country. One by one all things present are preserved in her unique, universe. Wearing the red dress might invite sudden showers and peculiar puddles. She would be seen, dancing between.

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

Pinky's Got An Old Pair A Shoes.

Not vintage couture,
not even classic sheik,
just plain old leather flats,
no working heel or seat.

Lining's torn and tough,
puff points to the left,
toes look kinda wasted,
sole ain't got no heft.

Now Pinky's not the kind,
to search out shopping deals,
she'll stuff in colored cardboard,
to cover holey heels.

She'll use a magic marker,
to paint a clever vamp,
pink unicorn, one rose,
her single-minded stamp.

We took the pair out dancing,
and street-smart set the cues,
they ask hip hopping Pinky,
"Where did ya get those shoes?"

She's got a unique style,
screamed all the shoe obsessives.
She's what the Vogue set calls,
an Avante-Garde Expressive.

Fashion slaves all over,
fell for tattered toes,
cardboard placed in corners,
pink unicorn, one rose.

Her shoes from rags to rage,
to every posh and dash,
old junk is now on trend,
proud Pinky's paid in cash.

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Ai Lana's Pearl.

Their bodies lay entwined and floating on a canopy of kelp. Her long flowing hair feels damp against his chest. Beguiled by love, he inhales the tangy scent of fresh sea weed and salt water. She must leave at high tide. But the memory of her storm grey eyes, lithe torso and tangled tresses will keep him restless and wanting until he finds her again. They drift along shoreline, exhausted in their new found passion. She whispers her name, "Ai Lana." Noble one. Shallow waves softly lull them to sleep. At dawn, she is gone, wrapped in her second skin and swimming amongst grey seals. So many mournful eyes set upon him. He cannot separate his lover from all others. She has left him a perfect oyster's pearl nestled in the cool sand. Is this the Selkie's promise to return? For seven years he searches, calling her name in seaside caves, climbing up jagged cliffs and wading through long ribbons of sandbar. Ai Lana's pearl is kept safe in a small silk pouch.  Every night he holds it up to lamp light, staring at the warmth and luster of her precious gem. It reminds him of radiant skin and shy smiles. One day, he will hear her ocean song again and, without hesitation, dive into the deepest part of his human heart.

Friday, March 15, 2013

Davis, Depicted.

Crystal blue eyes,
alabaster elegance,
queen of all she conquered,
Davis reigned supreme.

Big screen adaptation
or small comedic turn,
actress and chameleon,
sudden heat or slow burn.

Characters unvarnished,
filmed in black and white,
played with vivid voracity,
the beauty and the beast.

Scorned then disgraced,
Jezebel's soft smile.
concealed a strong resolve,
and unrequited love.

Stagecraft plus sarcasm,
broadway's Margo Channing,
shone like vintage wine,
aged to ripened perfection.

Baby Jane in doll's dress,
greasepaint monster,
grown and grotesque,
reveled in cruel control.

Davis chewed the scenery,
spit on type cast characters,
quipped cutting edge dialogue,
snapped at the status quo.

Pushed the sealed envelope,
demanded artistic leave,
challenged studio bosses,
fought until the final wrap.

Larger than all life,
with a fierce will to win
tough as a tiger,
tactful as a spitting cat.

Never the coy starlet,
she strived to hone her craft,
substance over sentiment,
grit over glamour.

A mere five foot three,
the girlish gilded goddess,
intimidated directors,
fit her moods to fit a frame.

Davis could do it all,
and did it the hard way.
absolutely unrivaled,
to the battled scarred bitter end.

"Fasten your seat belts.
It's going to be a bumpy night."
With Bette at the wheel,
the ride was always riveting.