the burlesque poetess(s)

poem-a-day week12 (lots of cats)

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

July 19-25, 2010, week12: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

being the hermit-poet turned social leads to silly poem-a-days! teaser be-low.

83. July 24, 2010 (sat.)

At B’s i meet Malloy cat the second, chic in
double-breasted black, radiator perched. Shy
with a silken proud tuft, a white pocket square.

B. and i discuss the intricacies, trickiness
of having a nude portrait of yourself in your
shared apt. parlour. We’re not prudes, but

i understand it’s hard to read poetry on a screen.
All the more reason to cross-stitch by your
side on the sofa, leave you with double-entendre
knotted stanzas.

At S’s, it’s tuxedo beast Boris the cat
(that does not get along with other cats)
lying in the doorjamb, inky tail(s)
and mother of pearl toes ready to trip you.

Jeweled fruit soaked in the bottom
of the sangria punch bowl makes everyone
smile orange peel, tell tales of elementary

school spin the bottle, fourth grade boyfriends.
Lounging under Bernini statuary
posters brings back dark lusty art

history lectures. “i don’t care, i have a rosy
-tinted, vegan, pornographic hue’d vision
of what’s to come for you in Austin!”

And yes, C. you’re learning that one
only overhears such fragments
from me— surely you misheard.

psst. the kitties want you to check out my e-merch table(tsy).

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

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78. July 19, 2010 (mon.)
I suppose we need our third rain cheque

High winds would have taken the doilies right off
bald dollies’ heads, Victorian mourning toupees
crocheted to catch tears and tea stains at rowdy

afternoon teas. The lightning is Prince-Regent
of this sunset, in my peripheral
i catch a forelock of electricity so bright

i startle— open my thumb in a gasp
on an instrument. i could lie, cher reader.
but i don’t know if it was sharp plastic—

edge of infant accordion or due to my sonnet
-softened calluses, my uke-throttling hand.
Taxi(dermy) the cat watches all of Eraserhead

(instead of the god-lightning) while the band
goes to jam out. Margarine music boxes (in stereo!),
we record our trances for the next sunny day
we can capture all crumpets’ drop shadows
without fear of storm, dormice pocket knives.

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79. July 20, 2010 (tues.)
No good artist/narcissist daughter

i email mom before brushing my teeth, promise
of a phone call to come. i pronounce Ga-rage Ba(h)nd
like one who’d fancify “Tar-get” en français.

The morning recording an ambivalove poem
gives me delusions of eponymous EP’s again.
i am a creepster internet lurker, when the tide is out

i detail my favourite dunes in others’ poems, critique
the shoreline’s choice in starfish, but in a friendly salon
manner, the chattering of saucers in ungloved hands.

i should write (for) my mother, really, but i’m sketching
cephalopods for an imaginary cigarette ad. At 11pm
i interrupt her prelude to Princess and the Pea nocturne

(like a jerk), and wish her the happiest of birth days
while i imagine her in nest of royal blue
blankets, two feet above the original king
mattress. “And thanks, you know, for offering me
the gift of life too.”

my beautiful witchy mother in Queen Mary’s garden, London 2006.

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80. July 21, 2010 (wed.)
strange pocket soundmakers by…

i gift the blue ascot after my rickety easel
heart with a long-lost advert that never was.
After perching on the suspenders-strewn

settee, proceed— pretend to teach French
with Mssr. Gainsbourg’s sexy sexy
tunes. Our gender-decadence, falsies

(moustache wax, cum-smelling
lash glue) make the charcoal, kohl point
properly enough: there are not enough songs
about hard drugs
on tiny instruments.

*Meff ‘n jojo’s tiny instrument review/revue opening for the Slomski Bros. 8/12 at Nick’s (friggin’) ABSINTHE bar, Worcester! can’t wait!

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81. July 22, 2010 (thurs.)
Your neuronal patterns are already being conditioned, quilted.

At rush hour i race apronless making us
an English breakfast. We have high stake
candy, Coke Zero smuggling ahead

sweaty palms at the cinema. Our first
meal of the day as the bad eggs
with a bed time of 5am? Bruncheon

supper ~ no good-nik beatniks, beans,
upright suns, tomatoes all sizzling
and shmoozing in the same pan. It’s a

party and miraculously i don’t pop
any yokes until after we see Inception.
After that i can’t truly be sure

if the totems we fondle
in our pockets can ever be trusted.
My screwdriver tastes like ice and
screws without a straw, so i must be bright
awake on the shore of sleep.

Wait—whose subconscious are we going into, exactly?

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82. July 23, 2010 (fri.)
outdoor cat antics

In Allston i forget i’m a girl in a short dress,
flapper beads, long lone dread make my case
worse. They’re why a gel’d devil with a bearded

braid— i mean a braided beard worked forests
of hard to catch my eye. i smile with the dimple
leftmost to him though i’m sure he couldn’t see

my lashes behind my shades in Grasshopper
i forget i’m in a band (too) and sit fangirl
creeper like college, eavesdropping ‘bout professional

birthday fairies. V. arrives trapeze lithe
and with a passion for the mushroom soup
i greatly admire her chrysalis in aerial silks,

fire poi, and nudist hippy den we retire to talk
like we used to. (Like in that bday poem gift i’ve revised
past knowing what to do with. Confetti?)

i’m so glad to be near someone whose seen me
in the forest in my purple dress being Pagan,
and when i beat my already dead airbag in agony.

The ten of coins kicks my ass, vogues for the camera
phone— all as this deck is apt to do. i left two books
of proper magical surrealism, top shelf spirituality

and my own niblet corner of the universe
(stanzaically) on V’s altar. Being able to talk
to someone about sticky men panting at your side
is something i am most grateful for.

A. calls herself a beauty school dropout as her pink
reflection hummingbirds ‘round my head
in my bathroom mirror. “Hand me the meta-scissors”

to release the rainbow-zebra handled pair
from its casing, meant for her with its neon safety
case. i know no one else who can smile

as wide as cat’s eyes when talking about poetry,
rhinestone knows what i mean when i joke about chelsea
cuts as she buzzes my neckline into a verse vagrant.

Forcing myself to break the asocial workload
has made me happier than i ever imagined. i can see
through my bangs for the first time in months,

hair on the floor would make a great two-tone merkin.
“It looks like tribbles.” A. asserts again.
But i’m not worried.

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83. July 24 (see above the cut)

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84. July 25, 2010 (sun.)

A rejection letter is framable, flammable
wallpaper for my imaginary studio of gilt
edges, charcoal briquettes— vanity

publishing, accessory grills.
This malformed maybe is the first to top off my wine
while the red seeps into paper, keyboard

making a dent in my unholy aquifer. We are
all natural wells of karmic retribution,
we cannot break through without drinking
deep.

louise brooks w. the whiskey above, me w. a dirty shirley tiki cocktail 2/09