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
Monday, February 5, 2007
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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