the burlesque poetess(s)

poem-a-day week10 (bugbite polka dots)

SPANKIN’ new poem-a-day ultimate table of contents/archive just made!
—-> http://poetesss.tumblr.com/PAD

(no more icky huge headers!)

July 5-11, 2010, week10: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

poem/days of ridonk & “only in Boston”/adventures note: thurs.’s amanda palmer ninjagig, sat. at cloud club improv ORG soiree, and sun. was Dr. Sketchy’s w. DalyaduSunshine! an individ’ tumble on that/all my drawings is to come.

this week’s above-the-cut is tales of bugbites take2 of 3, friday 7/9’s lovely Bacchanal birthday in Lincoln, MA. the jolly hobos had finished the gin by the time we got to this backyard by the railway station, but the ambience was amazing, obviously…and have a gratuitous/bonus steampunk pic of the bday girl, Eowyn. just for tumblr, by the magical Justin Moore.

68. July 9, 2010 (fri.)
Time for a quick ritual before bedtime

My backseat covered in Indian print tapestry,
R’s bike upside down in my hatch back, gooseflesh
from the AC and Braille bug bites rise to the touch.

The meat tent unattended, set up in the back yard
Bacchanal by the rail road tracks, the birthday
girl with the heavy metal kitchen accessories

we kissed twice for her giant Hepburn hat and pink
ukulele was squishing mosquitos with her cat
‘s help when we left. All her friends/guests’ blood

spatters, smaller than lipstick kisses on gift
cards appear on her ceiling, above the antique
bottles and inherited sideboard. We were sorry

to leave the full bar and the liquid tea candles,
but it seemed to be time…

(via booooooom.com’s contest)

the rest of the poems li(v)e below!

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64. July 5, 2010 (mon.)
you’re like an apocalyptic Pocahontas

i’m hibernating through summer still
dreaming of salamanders emerging
from ice chests, wilted ivy choking

air conditioners shut. Thirty love bites
rise slowly from my skin, antihistamines
mean i can’t really feel the fans and i resist

peeling off the Benadryl gel, curling liquid
latex off my legs. i’m not going to write
that the rosiest bumps feel like miniature breasts.
But they do.

before i was eated alive by my beloveds/bugs i’m so allergic to. took by Tj.

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65. June 6, 2010 (tues.)
how many times can you use the phrase ‘free lovin’ on one page?

My cat knows to crawl inside the Corona 12-pack
box on the floor, flee to the frigidaire boudoir
when the men with toolbelts trundle upstairs.

i field a phone interview, palms sticking to diner
kitchen table. Professional linoleum, salty grip
on my fountain pen. Can you tell me something

about your most recent independent project? This virtual
workshop i’m building the infrastructure of— a rabbit attic
to play dress-up, empty long-locked trunks, find new ears

to better tell our twice-told tales. The haunted hole—
a crawl space for canned prose and jams, we’ll spread
something sweet to read on toast, marmalade our way

out of cliché. And when i cut open the brown box
of high school handouts, manuscript of my first
virginal memoir? i decide my cat has the right idea.

Leave her to gnaw on the packing tape, and i crawl
inside the Corona box, squeeze a lime onto my sternum.

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66. July 7, 2010 (wed.)
a balconet bra you say?

We are speaking through a paper towel tube
or so Skype feels, imaginary communiqué
from a Saint on the isle of Cyprus.

i want a metaphor about faith in your own future
to go here, but first i want a good simile for
making “higher contacts.” Throwing pebbles

at ivory tower telescopes? Shooting off flares
outside Rapunzel’s widow’s walk? i just learned
quels balcons is the French for, nice breasts.

i like it, it implies tragic cleavage, Juliet
kept from the tiny knife of touch by fear.
Let my tiny pebble bursts be heard, i’m
wearing such nice negligee to read to you.

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67. July 8, 2010 (thurs.)
#DRATWATS

We play hooky to line-up and sweat as goth
-ily as possible in the American Repetory Theatre
lobby. When blouses pop blue buttons, and yellow

cabaret flowers appear it’s time for a nice chat
between a lady of stripes and balance and 100 or so
twitter ninjas, tiny chatterings of scissors and songwriting

questions answered— make more whoopie on ukulele.
After an exchange of rainbows, puffy paint shrieks
and bobby pin stab-wounds we head out for cold soup
in your honour.

Amanda Palmer’s ninjagig. magical rainbow shirt made by @selinaDF/selinasays.tumblr! smootch! there are neat pix by David Aquilina. including skeery sweatyfaced me be-low.

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68. above-the-cut

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69. July 10, 2010 (sat. improv ORG at cloud club)

Uuuly, why are you a history in hair
style stares? Wondering if those boots
and those runs can make thighs bamboo

poles’ distance apart. Betrayed by a frizzy
flapper bob, taking boudoir snaps of friends’
garter belts braided like live garlic, thrown

over one another as we casually descend
into sauna bonding. My day spent convincing
myself i couldn’t pick the wrong writing to share,

i can’t teach the delicate slices— murdering
the inner critic— incorrectly! Every two hours
a text message, “still sitting in the dark.” A power

-less sound man, paid to crowd control
the death core parking lot, stone sober just
in case a generator miracle occurs. “Walk

on over to the cloud club.” We’ll be in the green
haze of shmoozers being photographed beneath
branches, doorstep overgrown with telephoto lenses.

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70. July 11, 2010 (sun.)

From my child hand prehistoric squiggles
evolve into crepe paper lines, cupcake wrapper
waist-cincher, tissue paper pasties and the melting

frosting piled atop her French princess tête.
We acknowledge the erotic line drawn by
us as artists/audience frothing at the bust line.

Jem wiggles out of the jet black constellations
gripping her hips, the banter with each fan flutter
and pencil shaving swept to the floor doesn’t break

the illusion of objectifying our figure model
when we can’t see her eyes (red bangs, red lips)
we are transforming milk flesh into objets d’art.

..

laugh at my drawings, do it. blind contour most of the time! i eventually remembered how to draw by the end of Dalya duSunshine’s sensual modeling sess’