now that you’re gone
I will fold my withered eyes
into tiny tear-soaked souvenirs,
then I’ll place them in a package
and mail them to you
so that maybe some lonely day
when you think of me
if you think of me
you could take them out
and carefully peel
them open,
hold them
up to the light
and then maybe
you’d finally see
my version
of what destroyed
"us"
before you
strolled away
and became
nothing
more
than
a distant memory~
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
pairs
S uddenly its just me
O f course i understand
L ife is funny that way
I blinked my eyes and you moved on
T ime for me to move on
U nlock the cage
D ance again
E very thing becomes new again
everything comes in pairs
except me.
i dont mind
the solitude.
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
O f course i understand
L ife is funny that way
I blinked my eyes and you moved on
T ime for me to move on
U nlock the cage
D ance again
E very thing becomes new again
everything comes in pairs
except me.
i dont mind
the solitude.
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
getting dirty with chuck
What do you think Chuck Bukowski
would think
of all his hanging-on-every-word-groupies
out there these days?
author of the second wave beat generation,
I think the bastard's still sitting
at a bar somewhere
still swilling, forever grinning.
casting that come hither look
all his fans mistook for soft-porn living.
I've been reading him lately,
the words of a dead man
plunked on the page stark
fearless of reprisal, he didn't give a shit
he just wrote it the way it slid best.
wanton drunkenness, lewdness,
sexuality and brawling
became his calling card to the masses.
life mimicked his art -OR-
was it the other way around?
Even the shiny bastard with bad breath
hadn't gotten the best of him
as soon enough,
his son would eat him for lunch on Ham and Rye.
but he hadn't yet begun
to nibble around the edges of poetry
until he hit thirty-five
and met Janet Cooney Baker,
ten years later the drunken Baker levee would break.
Then came the Post Office,
Frances Smith licked his stamps
well enough to keep him off the streets
and long enough to conceive Marina Louise.
by then his work fucking exploded
framed within these glorious irreverent titles;
"FLOWER, FIST AND BESTIAL WAIL."
"ALL ASSHOLES IN THE WORLD AND MINE."
"EJACULATIONS, EXHIBITIONS, AND GENERAL TALES OF ORDINARY MADNESS."
"AT TERROR STREET AND AGONY WAY."
and...
"THE DAYS RUN AWAY LIKE WILD HORSES OVER THE HILL."
With success, Frances was out the door
then came a slew of younger cunts
(he'd be so proud of my word choice),
Linda King, Linda Lee Beighle.
Chuck had a thing for the lovely Linda's...
and perhaps a few more
thrown in for good measure.
in the end they would call him one of the "dirty realists"
and in 1992 they published his last book of poems
"THE LAST NIGHT OF THE EARTH POEMS."
Here's to you Charles Bukowski, dirty never read so good......
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
would think
of all his hanging-on-every-word-groupies
out there these days?
author of the second wave beat generation,
I think the bastard's still sitting
at a bar somewhere
still swilling, forever grinning.
casting that come hither look
all his fans mistook for soft-porn living.
I've been reading him lately,
the words of a dead man
plunked on the page stark
fearless of reprisal, he didn't give a shit
he just wrote it the way it slid best.
wanton drunkenness, lewdness,
sexuality and brawling
became his calling card to the masses.
life mimicked his art -OR-
was it the other way around?
Even the shiny bastard with bad breath
hadn't gotten the best of him
as soon enough,
his son would eat him for lunch on Ham and Rye.
but he hadn't yet begun
to nibble around the edges of poetry
until he hit thirty-five
and met Janet Cooney Baker,
ten years later the drunken Baker levee would break.
Then came the Post Office,
Frances Smith licked his stamps
well enough to keep him off the streets
and long enough to conceive Marina Louise.
by then his work fucking exploded
framed within these glorious irreverent titles;
"FLOWER, FIST AND BESTIAL WAIL."
"ALL ASSHOLES IN THE WORLD AND MINE."
"EJACULATIONS, EXHIBITIONS, AND GENERAL TALES OF ORDINARY MADNESS."
"AT TERROR STREET AND AGONY WAY."
and...
"THE DAYS RUN AWAY LIKE WILD HORSES OVER THE HILL."
With success, Frances was out the door
then came a slew of younger cunts
(he'd be so proud of my word choice),
Linda King, Linda Lee Beighle.
Chuck had a thing for the lovely Linda's...
and perhaps a few more
thrown in for good measure.
in the end they would call him one of the "dirty realists"
and in 1992 they published his last book of poems
"THE LAST NIGHT OF THE EARTH POEMS."
Here's to you Charles Bukowski, dirty never read so good......
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
i know...
it is here
within these two words
where the ruins
of your secret thoughts
lay abandoned
just like the little girl
you once were.
cameras banned
writers won't write it
no canvas to capture it
the love you can't utter
the loneliest place on earth ...
must reside in you.
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
within these two words
where the ruins
of your secret thoughts
lay abandoned
just like the little girl
you once were.
cameras banned
writers won't write it
no canvas to capture it
the love you can't utter
the loneliest place on earth ...
must reside in you.
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
got groupies?
if i were to listen
very
carefully
i can almost hear
the sound of keyboards clacking,
"tap-tap-tappity"
in darkened rooms
where silent monitors stand in silhouette
against the swirling-gray smoke
of cigarettes dangling
like whorish participles
from the lips of word groupies.
while a steady stream
of mad-verse-driven jism
d
r
i
p
s
down naked legs.
oh the glory of words, wordsmiths, poets!
ah, those clever masters
of baited verse
and brilliant-tormented prose!
it’s a slick manipulation of self-worth
and almost poetic justice
that allows every groupie to believe
those pretty lines
were penned just for her
and him
and her.
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
very
carefully
i can almost hear
the sound of keyboards clacking,
"tap-tap-tappity"
in darkened rooms
where silent monitors stand in silhouette
against the swirling-gray smoke
of cigarettes dangling
like whorish participles
from the lips of word groupies.
while a steady stream
of mad-verse-driven jism
d
r
i
p
s
down naked legs.
oh the glory of words, wordsmiths, poets!
ah, those clever masters
of baited verse
and brilliant-tormented prose!
it’s a slick manipulation of self-worth
and almost poetic justice
that allows every groupie to believe
those pretty lines
were penned just for her
and him
and her.
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
for mary
what's the matter mary?
why are you crying, another nightmare?
come sit on mother's lap.
what's that mary? you don't have a mother?
mary had a lit-tle lamb, lit-tle lamb...
our protector, the nurturer
lovers of themselves more than us.
our mother, our savior
but ours were slayers.
slayers of little girl pink
did she ever once think about us?
slayers of little girl dreams
all bundled-up pretty in little girl ribbons.
slayers of bath time and bed-time stories
while monsters waited to drown us
then crawled under our beds every night
to tell us how b-a-a-a-a-d we'd been.
lit-tle lamb, lit-tle lamb...
don't cry mary it wasn't our fault
mother kicked us to the gutter
like yesterdays garbage
then went on with her life
as though we'd never been born.
i know you're torn mary,
between feeling hollow
and wanting to find an empty field
where you can scream your heart out
why mommy? Why MOMMY? WHY?
you want to scream so loud
the spittle flying out of your lips
becomes crimson with all those raging questions
keep screaming mary
then i'll tell you a secret...
mary had a lit-tle lamb it's fleece was white as...death.
feeling better mary? i hope so
because here's the secret -
there are no answers.
it is time to sacrifice that lit-tle lamb
to shed the childhood fleece that would haunt you
to the grave if you let it.
life won't let you rewind, or undo, or redo
that's just the way of things mary.
you can't let this get in the way of things mary.
you are stronger for all of the horror
you had to endure but little girl lost
will become a whole woman found someday
if you just let her
mary...
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
why are you crying, another nightmare?
come sit on mother's lap.
what's that mary? you don't have a mother?
mary had a lit-tle lamb, lit-tle lamb...
our protector, the nurturer
lovers of themselves more than us.
our mother, our savior
but ours were slayers.
slayers of little girl pink
did she ever once think about us?
slayers of little girl dreams
all bundled-up pretty in little girl ribbons.
slayers of bath time and bed-time stories
while monsters waited to drown us
then crawled under our beds every night
to tell us how b-a-a-a-a-d we'd been.
lit-tle lamb, lit-tle lamb...
don't cry mary it wasn't our fault
mother kicked us to the gutter
like yesterdays garbage
then went on with her life
as though we'd never been born.
i know you're torn mary,
between feeling hollow
and wanting to find an empty field
where you can scream your heart out
why mommy? Why MOMMY? WHY?
you want to scream so loud
the spittle flying out of your lips
becomes crimson with all those raging questions
keep screaming mary
then i'll tell you a secret...
mary had a lit-tle lamb it's fleece was white as...death.
feeling better mary? i hope so
because here's the secret -
there are no answers.
it is time to sacrifice that lit-tle lamb
to shed the childhood fleece that would haunt you
to the grave if you let it.
life won't let you rewind, or undo, or redo
that's just the way of things mary.
you can't let this get in the way of things mary.
you are stronger for all of the horror
you had to endure but little girl lost
will become a whole woman found someday
if you just let her
mary...
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
finally silent
when Spring returns
I will sit alone,
between budding wildflowers
and tall sweet grasses
in the middle of Ophelia's meadow.
perhaps voices swirling in my head
will be stilled for a time
by the sheer splendor
and the pond perfectly thawed
beckoning an even sweeter
slumber...
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
I will sit alone,
between budding wildflowers
and tall sweet grasses
in the middle of Ophelia's meadow.
perhaps voices swirling in my head
will be stilled for a time
by the sheer splendor
and the pond perfectly thawed
beckoning an even sweeter
slumber...
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
casita bonito
in the casita
the salt licked caribbean air
sails through open windows
billowing curtains into morning dance
sending scent tumbling across nostrils.
a pink-orange twirl along the horizon,
sunrise beckons-
wake up! wake up!
glorious daylight shimmering in expectation-
get up! get up!
the new day prodding her over coffee
into writing yet another crappy poem
he will be busy as usual
throwing out fishing lines
yes, to avoid reading her lines
until later...
palm fronds rustle gently
against an afternoon siesta.
sunshine sprawling across wrinkled sheets
she watches the heaving of his bare chest
in satisfied slumber-
he dreams this day spent with her
will last forever...
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
the salt licked caribbean air
sails through open windows
billowing curtains into morning dance
sending scent tumbling across nostrils.
a pink-orange twirl along the horizon,
sunrise beckons-
wake up! wake up!
glorious daylight shimmering in expectation-
get up! get up!
the new day prodding her over coffee
into writing yet another crappy poem
he will be busy as usual
throwing out fishing lines
yes, to avoid reading her lines
until later...
palm fronds rustle gently
against an afternoon siesta.
sunshine sprawling across wrinkled sheets
she watches the heaving of his bare chest
in satisfied slumber-
he dreams this day spent with her
will last forever...
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
Andromeda Weeps
"Andromeda fair lady, why do you weep?"
Apus, Bird of Paradise hearing her sobs doth shriek.
And Aquarius, The Water Bearer filling his shards at faster pace,
to quench parched lips and wipe tear-stained face.
While Aguila, the Eagle skillfully chases Cancer, the Crab,
he’ll quell the Princess with dinner, delivered in a velveteen bag.
Cassiopeia, The Queen begins to fret in her glittering chair,
‘tis worrisome, this daughter’s depression
and oh so remarkably rare.
"It’s not like you to cause such a snit!
Andromeda, snap out of it!"
"Mother!" She wailed, her face noticeably pale.
"It is for dear Pluto, my heart doth ail!
He’s been demoted, he’s been voted out today!
Oh, those fool humans in that cursed Milky Way!
What the hell do they know anyway?
Dwarf planet? Surely they joke?
For they do not know who they have provoked!
In retaliation and for Pluto’s salvation,
from this day forward I hereby decree,
the Earth‘s new name…shall be obtuse and inane.
For what’s in a name?
"Planet Henry!"
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
Apus, Bird of Paradise hearing her sobs doth shriek.
And Aquarius, The Water Bearer filling his shards at faster pace,
to quench parched lips and wipe tear-stained face.
While Aguila, the Eagle skillfully chases Cancer, the Crab,
he’ll quell the Princess with dinner, delivered in a velveteen bag.
Cassiopeia, The Queen begins to fret in her glittering chair,
‘tis worrisome, this daughter’s depression
and oh so remarkably rare.
"It’s not like you to cause such a snit!
Andromeda, snap out of it!"
"Mother!" She wailed, her face noticeably pale.
"It is for dear Pluto, my heart doth ail!
He’s been demoted, he’s been voted out today!
Oh, those fool humans in that cursed Milky Way!
What the hell do they know anyway?
Dwarf planet? Surely they joke?
For they do not know who they have provoked!
In retaliation and for Pluto’s salvation,
from this day forward I hereby decree,
the Earth‘s new name…shall be obtuse and inane.
For what’s in a name?
"Planet Henry!"
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
Bougainvillea
Scant memories of wine-swept hangover
misted into new daylight.
The residue of fermented dreams
still sitting on my pillow.
Though I remembered the dream
and the swift descent of bare feet
stepping into a clouded courtyard
of smooth marbled construction.
Tall columns stood sentry
smothered by woody vines
of magenta-blossomed Bougainvillea
and thorns, too many thorns.
Loathing intrusion I crept forward,
wondering what I might find.
Suddenly the clouds folded into themselves
and the pale sky overhead began to bleed
ruby-blue raindrops of regret,
each one falling in slow motion across my vision.
Wiping eyes I see her standing there,
still clutching the blue steering wheel
of her Lincoln Continental. And the -words-
"...near transection of the superior vena cava..."
swirl themselves into the wind, across the courtyard
to hang, dangling amongst the thorns.
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
misted into new daylight.
The residue of fermented dreams
still sitting on my pillow.
Though I remembered the dream
and the swift descent of bare feet
stepping into a clouded courtyard
of smooth marbled construction.
Tall columns stood sentry
smothered by woody vines
of magenta-blossomed Bougainvillea
and thorns, too many thorns.
Loathing intrusion I crept forward,
wondering what I might find.
Suddenly the clouds folded into themselves
and the pale sky overhead began to bleed
ruby-blue raindrops of regret,
each one falling in slow motion across my vision.
Wiping eyes I see her standing there,
still clutching the blue steering wheel
of her Lincoln Continental. And the -words-
"...near transection of the superior vena cava..."
swirl themselves into the wind, across the courtyard
to hang, dangling amongst the thorns.
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
Letter to Gatsby
My Darling Jay,
West Egg - East Egg
a tisket a tasket...
For all anyone knew you hitched a ride
on a wayward breeze dangling from old money.
Ah, how deco beauties swooned in flirty summer style
dripped dazzled in diamonds
doing their eyelash bat in your direction!
They all came, didn't they darling? Creme de la creme...
Do you remember?
Rich business men so dapper
swilling your best whiskey, flowing like amber rivers
under white lights and glorious ivory tents
while your intention was to beckon....only me.
But they couldn't see
they didn't know -
Your carefree Daisy from youthful dreams,
-or- your thoughts of winning her heart again
fought hard, fraught sadly
for love's truth is not always
what it promises...
Love Always,
Daisy
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
West Egg - East Egg
a tisket a tasket...
For all anyone knew you hitched a ride
on a wayward breeze dangling from old money.
Ah, how deco beauties swooned in flirty summer style
dripped dazzled in diamonds
doing their eyelash bat in your direction!
They all came, didn't they darling? Creme de la creme...
Do you remember?
Rich business men so dapper
swilling your best whiskey, flowing like amber rivers
under white lights and glorious ivory tents
while your intention was to beckon....only me.
But they couldn't see
they didn't know -
Your carefree Daisy from youthful dreams,
-or- your thoughts of winning her heart again
fought hard, fraught sadly
for love's truth is not always
what it promises...
Love Always,
Daisy
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
Monday, February 5, 2007
vodka-dews
flowing hair brushing bare shoulders
skin-tight faded jeans
four-inch heels baby!
ah, the spent years
cheap thrills
throaty joplin
bar hopping
bumming
quarters for the jukebox,
bopping.
swilling bar brand vodka
unless someone else was buying...
bring on white russians!
goddamn russians-
drank a whole army
under the table
with a chaser
of lovely black beauties
loved those niggahs a little too much...
party girl,
high flying barfly
winner of one wet t-shirt contest.
trashed my best pair come-fuck-me red high-heels
ever-
remember when it was
just us
drinking screwdrivers?
OJ ran out
switched to mountain-dew
called 'em vodka-dews
two fifth's lost our heads
for three days
sicker than shit
spewing hendrix status,
hugging porcelain
to the shrill of electric guitars
then started all over again.
lived for fridays
whole weekends,
all-nighters,
filled with every kind of mind bend
we could get our hands on.
those were the best
vodka-dew
fucked-up
purple haze days
me and you...
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
skin-tight faded jeans
four-inch heels baby!
ah, the spent years
cheap thrills
throaty joplin
bar hopping
bumming
quarters for the jukebox,
bopping.
swilling bar brand vodka
unless someone else was buying...
bring on white russians!
goddamn russians-
drank a whole army
under the table
with a chaser
of lovely black beauties
loved those niggahs a little too much...
party girl,
high flying barfly
winner of one wet t-shirt contest.
trashed my best pair come-fuck-me red high-heels
ever-
remember when it was
just us
drinking screwdrivers?
OJ ran out
switched to mountain-dew
called 'em vodka-dews
two fifth's lost our heads
for three days
sicker than shit
spewing hendrix status,
hugging porcelain
to the shrill of electric guitars
then started all over again.
lived for fridays
whole weekends,
all-nighters,
filled with every kind of mind bend
we could get our hands on.
those were the best
vodka-dew
fucked-up
purple haze days
me and you...
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
shadowed canyons
near the edge of a gravel road
she lives quietly.
a few lovers came and left
the generosity of one
bought her a rusting metal trailer.
a sweat-box in summer
in winter it got colder than a coffin
but it's home.
forty-eight summers
finds this graying choctaw child
blushing red skin into rough wrinkles.
beauty squandered in life's toil
years spent settling for the mundane.
never questioning
ancestral assimilation
or a heritage lost
to part of this white woman
born native american.
on the loneliest nights
tired feet slide
into store-bought moccasins
made in china, adorned
with beads strung in sri lanka.
she listens to bargain-bin cd's
knocking back glass after glass
of this year's vintage,
until she's drunk enough
to believe-
the forlorn call of reed flutes
and the beating of drums
echoing through shadowed canyons
is the voice of the Great Spirit
forgiving her existence.
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
she lives quietly.
a few lovers came and left
the generosity of one
bought her a rusting metal trailer.
a sweat-box in summer
in winter it got colder than a coffin
but it's home.
forty-eight summers
finds this graying choctaw child
blushing red skin into rough wrinkles.
beauty squandered in life's toil
years spent settling for the mundane.
never questioning
ancestral assimilation
or a heritage lost
to part of this white woman
born native american.
on the loneliest nights
tired feet slide
into store-bought moccasins
made in china, adorned
with beads strung in sri lanka.
she listens to bargain-bin cd's
knocking back glass after glass
of this year's vintage,
until she's drunk enough
to believe-
the forlorn call of reed flutes
and the beating of drums
echoing through shadowed canyons
is the voice of the Great Spirit
forgiving her existence.
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
Saturday, February 3, 2007
fuzzy fluff
shape shifting globs
of wordsmithed wonder
sit dormant on my shoulder
waiting to be flicked off
like so much lint,
the fuzzy fluff
of insignificance
but clinging nevertheless
to my fingertips.
that these fingers
could someday pen
unforgettable verse
and mind altering prose
seems nothing more
than a reoccurring dream
of preposterous prediction
and pillow-suffocated delusion.
that my mind could mine words
to the depths of creative origin
or pluck unforgettable lines
and verse so clever and unimagined
enough to stain the minds
and touch the hearts of the masses
is absurdity of tragic proportion.
yet, for all that is irrational
on occasion,
a part of this insanity takes hold
and within the shudder of fear
there lays the faint recognition
of all that is possible
(though highly improbable).
"A passion-fruit sunrise
hung high over the horizon
this morning, this morning-glory
morning....." I read out loud,
pausing to taste the lines
of this latest write.
letting the sound of the words
slide across my lips
then sit on my shoulder
for a moment,
before rolling them
between my fingertips
like balls of lint waiting
to be discarded.
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
of wordsmithed wonder
sit dormant on my shoulder
waiting to be flicked off
like so much lint,
the fuzzy fluff
of insignificance
but clinging nevertheless
to my fingertips.
that these fingers
could someday pen
unforgettable verse
and mind altering prose
seems nothing more
than a reoccurring dream
of preposterous prediction
and pillow-suffocated delusion.
that my mind could mine words
to the depths of creative origin
or pluck unforgettable lines
and verse so clever and unimagined
enough to stain the minds
and touch the hearts of the masses
is absurdity of tragic proportion.
yet, for all that is irrational
on occasion,
a part of this insanity takes hold
and within the shudder of fear
there lays the faint recognition
of all that is possible
(though highly improbable).
"A passion-fruit sunrise
hung high over the horizon
this morning, this morning-glory
morning....." I read out loud,
pausing to taste the lines
of this latest write.
letting the sound of the words
slide across my lips
then sit on my shoulder
for a moment,
before rolling them
between my fingertips
like balls of lint waiting
to be discarded.
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
Shadows of Sepia
As I descend
into meandering dreams,
out of the corner
of sleep-swept eyes,
I see the slender hands of Time
reaching out to stroke the midnight air
calmly putting to rest
and releasing her grasp
on the remnants of the day.
And as the Day floats up
to begin it’s journey
a tiny tear of regret escapes
the metameric shell of my dreams
caressing un-noticed, curving its way
gently down my sleeping cheek.
Discarded Days take flight
and pass through gnarled limbs
of ancient Live Oaks where the irony
falls upon deaf ears and muted lips
of yesterday’s apparitions,
tethered to decadent marble pediments
beneath sacrilegious pillars
of every imagined could have been.
And for awhile they will reside
along with a legion of heckling ravens
secreted away in cosmic courtyards
gleefully trilling reminders
of rendezvoused paths recklessly trodden
and those not taken.
Slumbering dreamless
into dusty bits of tattered memories
before their colors begin
to bleed themselves down
like falling shadows of sepia-colored regret
floating just beyond the reach
of desperately clawing memories
and my outstretched fingertips.
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
into meandering dreams,
out of the corner
of sleep-swept eyes,
I see the slender hands of Time
reaching out to stroke the midnight air
calmly putting to rest
and releasing her grasp
on the remnants of the day.
And as the Day floats up
to begin it’s journey
a tiny tear of regret escapes
the metameric shell of my dreams
caressing un-noticed, curving its way
gently down my sleeping cheek.
Discarded Days take flight
and pass through gnarled limbs
of ancient Live Oaks where the irony
falls upon deaf ears and muted lips
of yesterday’s apparitions,
tethered to decadent marble pediments
beneath sacrilegious pillars
of every imagined could have been.
And for awhile they will reside
along with a legion of heckling ravens
secreted away in cosmic courtyards
gleefully trilling reminders
of rendezvoused paths recklessly trodden
and those not taken.
Slumbering dreamless
into dusty bits of tattered memories
before their colors begin
to bleed themselves down
like falling shadows of sepia-colored regret
floating just beyond the reach
of desperately clawing memories
and my outstretched fingertips.
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
in the tepidarium
splendor defined
the female form
waiting for her roman bath
and the portrait painter
in the decadent central hall.
her sweat licked
curves, played nude
against the palest of flesh tones
while peacock feathers kissed
the nooks and niches
of her shadow-flicked virtues
glowing moist.
already bored, the woman reclines
on a ruby-satin trundle
draped with the hides of three white leopards,
languishing against emerald-velvet pillows
piled high and soft against her skin.
framed by flickering candlelight
from hundreds of the finest candles,
she watches the artist prepare his pigments,
align the brushes
and the blank canvas
yet to be painted.
he studies his subject for a moment
taking in her long hair, spilled deep auburn curls
sauntering over thin shoulders
caressing along the length of her spine,
ending at the crest of her aristocratic ass.
but it is her eyes that weakens his knees
and his confidence
for they are the blue of the roman sky in springtime.
finally, the painter sets to work
swirling and blending his pallet
not yet content
this version of blue
matches precisely those stunning eyes.
he leanes in for a closer look
and stumbles bumbling into the candlesticks.
hundreds of the finest candles
finding their fiery way to the ruby satin-trundle
and the pillows, then the model in mid-yawn,
while nero plays on...
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
the female form
waiting for her roman bath
and the portrait painter
in the decadent central hall.
her sweat licked
curves, played nude
against the palest of flesh tones
while peacock feathers kissed
the nooks and niches
of her shadow-flicked virtues
glowing moist.
already bored, the woman reclines
on a ruby-satin trundle
draped with the hides of three white leopards,
languishing against emerald-velvet pillows
piled high and soft against her skin.
framed by flickering candlelight
from hundreds of the finest candles,
she watches the artist prepare his pigments,
align the brushes
and the blank canvas
yet to be painted.
he studies his subject for a moment
taking in her long hair, spilled deep auburn curls
sauntering over thin shoulders
caressing along the length of her spine,
ending at the crest of her aristocratic ass.
but it is her eyes that weakens his knees
and his confidence
for they are the blue of the roman sky in springtime.
finally, the painter sets to work
swirling and blending his pallet
not yet content
this version of blue
matches precisely those stunning eyes.
he leanes in for a closer look
and stumbles bumbling into the candlesticks.
hundreds of the finest candles
finding their fiery way to the ruby satin-trundle
and the pillows, then the model in mid-yawn,
while nero plays on...
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
ain't no cath-o-lic
while strumming through today's
discord i find
it's really an essential lack of harmony
that keeps me
from breaking out in song.
perhaps its the duet status
eluding me
preempting the necessary beat?
lyrics having long ago
flown the sparrows nest
in search of worms, sustenance.
point - counterpoint
what's the point?
'ya GOTTA keep playin'...
BOYZ! i ain't no cath-o-lic BUT...
we're getting the band back together.
where's my shades? flip me a cigarette elwood!
crank up them amps matt!
fuck those far flying lyrics
we'll make 'em up as we go.
time for a NEW song
and could someone pleeease
beat the shit out of yesterdays beats? i need me some tunes!
joliet jake we miss 'ya bro
(can 'ya here us from down there? ha!)
i feel a song comin' on...
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
discord i find
it's really an essential lack of harmony
that keeps me
from breaking out in song.
perhaps its the duet status
eluding me
preempting the necessary beat?
lyrics having long ago
flown the sparrows nest
in search of worms, sustenance.
point - counterpoint
what's the point?
'ya GOTTA keep playin'...
BOYZ! i ain't no cath-o-lic BUT...
we're getting the band back together.
where's my shades? flip me a cigarette elwood!
crank up them amps matt!
fuck those far flying lyrics
we'll make 'em up as we go.
time for a NEW song
and could someone pleeease
beat the shit out of yesterdays beats? i need me some tunes!
joliet jake we miss 'ya bro
(can 'ya here us from down there? ha!)
i feel a song comin' on...
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
Friday, February 2, 2007
salmon cakes
reckless mind-lust
propels you forward
like a pacific salmon thrashing
on the crest of rushing waters,
determined to make it upriver.
to spawn until the moment
you take your last breathless gulp.
i see you there, swimming to her
guided by ego, the mere idea of her.
swimming, swimming.
exhaustion, fins flailing
silver-blue fishtail flipping-off
naysaying hungry bears
warning you of her wanton whims.
skeptical fishermen
wagging their spears in disgust.
send her a message,
pretty words in a bottle and be done with it!
don't you know death is imminent
when you arrive at your destination?
is your birth not worth
the living of it unless you find her there
waiting,
oh so very accommodating
in the pond of your undoing?
in the dim-lit swank of the kansas city star diner
the salacious one flips open the menu and smiles
she already knows what she came for.
I’ll have the salmon cakes….
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
propels you forward
like a pacific salmon thrashing
on the crest of rushing waters,
determined to make it upriver.
to spawn until the moment
you take your last breathless gulp.
i see you there, swimming to her
guided by ego, the mere idea of her.
swimming, swimming.
exhaustion, fins flailing
silver-blue fishtail flipping-off
naysaying hungry bears
warning you of her wanton whims.
skeptical fishermen
wagging their spears in disgust.
send her a message,
pretty words in a bottle and be done with it!
don't you know death is imminent
when you arrive at your destination?
is your birth not worth
the living of it unless you find her there
waiting,
oh so very accommodating
in the pond of your undoing?
in the dim-lit swank of the kansas city star diner
the salacious one flips open the menu and smiles
she already knows what she came for.
I’ll have the salmon cakes….
© Copyright claimed 2007, Debra Marlar
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