the burlesque poetess(s)

poem-a-day week11

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

July 12-18, 2010 week11: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

this week’s teaser-poem comes w. my original art and wouldn’t be complete with *video of us playing to the masses in broad daylight without frying like vampires? eternal thanks to NilesZ of the Atari Wallet Empire for coming to the show w. his also-talented/crafty wife, Phet(nikone). Phet makes (among other amazing things ‘n wristlet-purses) the be-autiful fabricvelopes i sell my deluxe!niblet zine originals inside, and yay for them bringing their amazing wee’un Sidd(hartha) to his first concert!

75. July 16, 2010 (fri, ARTBEAT!)
We’ve never done a PG-13 show before

“Yoo hoo sailor!” is Army of Toys for “water.”
Wet wet reverb washes over children accepting
party favours from the plastic woman with grass

-green hair. A little boy inspects what my transistor
radio fancier friend has tapped out of his corn cob
pipe in the roots of a picnic shade tree.

Sunset by stage brights, we play framed by red
clitopus, artopus. We’re foaming far outside our normal
palette for an apocalyptic soccer team (red & black).

Meff’s looks inspire me to ration cigarettes for my nation,
stripes fading to fishbone. Our sea wife corseting hints
at winches and it seems the mayor of Somerville must

like bubbles, the tiniest mosh pit participants
congregate beneath tentacles, a living statue’s
plaster cast blown kisses. We performed, (appropriately)

after a hip hop children’s book, before a thunder storm
brought on by horn section.

.

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

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71. July 12, 2010 (mon.)
Shotgun, the wedding dove.

The beast goes into the carrier, a petulant composer
dropped off to learn to speak cat for a few days.
Pin-up swimsuit in my cherry-print duffel, apparently

only pregnant women want bikini skirts. But i do
need ear plugs in the car when father and son
are talking loudly over Zappa about .wav files

all the way to Mexico, New York. When we arrive
we help Nana and Papa name the white dove (wedding
reception escapee?) that has recently taken up residence

at their picturesque camp. Garter? Chastity? we suggest.
Abortion offers Nana. Shotgun? Yes! i watch three generations
of men that talk to animals— calling that cardinal Goofy

and all rodents referred to are assumed male
until proven otherwise. Sorry Nana and Papa, we’ve been
burning the candlewick embroidery at both ends

of the settee pillow, we’ve arrived delirious for fishing
and sleeping in past first catch. We city demons
go crash in the second guest room— just big enough
for the bed, the fans blowing in dreams off Lake Ontario.

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72. July 13, 2010 (tues.)

That’s awful late for a young girl
to be out. Nana, you and my mother
could be cut from the same delicately quilted jib.

i mean, i saw the dove flying out by the cut…
(Where crick meets large mouth
of the lake, full of bass’ sandpaper tongues.)

i am the commuter rail dream girl, really
it’s safe to be out at 1am picking up the no-
good night shift boy in Boston, no one else

exists under the corrupt funding, embezzled dim
fireflies ~ our street lamps. Out here at camp i sleep
thirteen hours without cat or neighbourly noise

to clue me in to the garbage truck passing
of dawn— it’s an endless biomedical night. The radio
transmitter talks atop microwave, i keep thinking

it’s an old answering machine’s murmurs, but no
it’s the locals, officials, fishers. We are not
in a summer version of The Shining. My line is fleeced!

On the boat i am transfixed by the world’s
smallest spider ecosystem installed in the new
down-riggers, too short oars. Let’s fish where the birds

are fishing, and tell me again about the prank
sponge cake Nana made, the one with real frosted
kitchen sponges. (We need far fewer words here.)

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73. July 14, 2010 (wed.)
‘Sated’ is in the Bible.

Some pink chop clouds the view of your painted supper plate
come clearing time, sunset with HGTV Property
Virgins on the horizon— you have to remark on the gulls,

save, repent yourself of second corn cob or hot
dog, spare coney sins. My mosquito midnight
dinners after a crème de menthe on ice has sent Papa

long gone to bed. 11:30pm on it’s me and the salsa,
and the apple pie and the chocolate milk at odds
with the remote, restarting Invader Zim while Kev pours

good whiskey, re-waters my vodka, ice. There
will be no salty tsk tsk from Nana and the bite taken
out of her upper arm from a vaccination she never got

to clean out the fridge of creamsicle salad before
dinner with the guest circus pup— the Samson show!
A mix salad chihuahua retrieving napkins. We shout

to help name the fancy cheesey appetizer
with the deceptively meaty mushrooms inside.
“Bread bomb” doesn’t capture the poppy seed grenade.

A risqué quiche deserves a punchier name, moreover,
and what’s leftover we’ll finish for our moth shoo-ing
snack with boozey lemonade late later tonight.

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74. July 15, 2010 ~ see audio post!
& 75. July 16 ~ see above-the-cut :)

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76. July 17, 2010 (laaate fri. into sat. ~ 92 Protons show)

Genie bottles

i like the venues we end up at
enough to take a mirage minute
or two to myself. Cobblestone dovetail

-ing it to the cigarette-butt sandy parking lot,
inhaling and holding gulps of
AC in my car, lapped up, mead

tongue in my ear, green foam can’t
keep out fish ‘n chips fueled bar bickering,
and please, keep it down when i ask

you to order me a Sprite with gin.
The photos will develop without my
dress-straps visible, because you

are what i wear these amazing
ugly shoes for.

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77. July 18, 2010 (sun.’s various party favours)

i wasn’t there to keep you from
the waves, tossing back a few too many
shipwrecks between horror-surf tune sets.

Rocks in your pockets when you did crawl
into bed. In the morning you pull the drum
rug out from under your tongue, tassels first.

.

i’ve decided to kill my childhood
Piggy bank, bat mitzvah and babysitting
savings to raid (student loan woe).

While i’d taught private school boys
to defrost pizza, hot glue plastic bottles
of tornados (& only watch the first half of Titanic

with a lady present)— the soccer moms
in pearls were always waxing makeup
advice, lipstick blotted half out the door

to a charity ball, trying to spritz my ankles
with Obsession from the half-bath.
The cocktail napkin cologne that nearly
travels through the blood.