the burlesque poetess(s)

poem-a-day week27 “If you can’t sweat your way into fishnets / You can always merge with the words”

November 1-7, 2010 week27: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
http://locksmithy.livejournal.com/tag/poem-a-day
http://poetesss.tumblr.com/PAD

The 2 Boston nights of the Dresden Dolls Reunion Tour…epic and rare. So they as a pair are the teaser. i was part of the meta-crowd-busk-ruckus, majorette-ing w. fellow Broken TOys Kevin Corzett (bari sax) & Tj “Terrorence” Horn (Rufio hobo drum kit) for Emperor Norton’s Stationary Marching Band. Huzzah! Close 2nd for teaser-poem is #186 “A mirror-holding figure.” For Helena xo. You know, not just cos’ it was a carnie time— i’m really proud of these poems from this week. Neat. i hope you enjoy.

182. Novemeber 2, 2010 (dresden dolls, wilbur theatre night1, tues.)

I’m objectifying all of you! This whole line!

Women’s waists used to cinch in or
Rather forcibly squeeze past velvet
Ushers, repeat cabaret offenders in the cold

Some kind of communist pilot
Mucks up the sound system
A dolls tribute to masquerade ball

-jointed elbows and knees
Detailed by quick strokes of india ink
“We McFuckings never apologize!”

“I’m picturing a lot of cold sheep” your clan
The opening number rips open
The last decade of underage tour-shirts

Corset’d at the merch table
A kid with black blush nodding violently
Snarling every word alongside the ripping

Banging of keys and skin
Petals scattered fetal around the monitors
So this is devotion, ritual lyricism

Gatling gun strobe light
Making a pair of pre-code cartoons
Stage lightning silhouettes

If you can’t sweat your way into fishnets
You can always merge with the words
We all don’t fit in
These shell casings
Mother of pearl clips

ENSMB, two nights of street carnie and theatre parading fury! (AFP’s twitpic of Kev & co.)

183. November 3, 2010 (wed. ddolls @ Wilbur night2)

Degenerate terra cotta

If you feel like you went down with the ship
‘s orchestra, then get in the van
Our composer has spare buttons

The majorette is drawing straws
For the lovers behind sticky registers
Intentions are un-weighted, without glitter

Water in my cup you could mistake
Me for the other moustache’d half
If you’re offering a seat in the red mezzanine

Throng, stop staring at the honeymooner
Lingerie, sweet cheeks ascending marble stair
Redundant really, someone’s crinoline comment

On the rarity of natural blonde goths
The elongated neck of the actress
And the recurring encore of violence

Lead us to the South Street diner
(Cupcake fairies can’t kiss everyone)
The taxis passing by had wondered:

What is this brassy pack of gypsy smokes?
AWOL vagrants’ fruity theatrics
In the streets of the theatre district?

It’s the punk cabaret warm up,
The ballerina stretching side-stage in chalk

*brown bag blue ribbon Titanicsicle prize i made for dear @selinaDF (tumble-read all about it)

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

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“a nunnery crashed my circus” 4/2010 v.

this was kindly published in its first form in Magpie Magazine, but i couldn’t help ceaselessly adding/revising/continuing the adventure for my zinelet project, niblet: circus verse last weekend. whoops? hoozah!

(found Les Chauds Lapins who i am listening to now while searching for appro’ accompanying imagery. banjo-leles!? &yes, i need to illustrate my poems myself, those are en route)

“a nunnery crashed my circus”

I lend my darker habit(s) to Salome
(sweet girl needs an 8th veil!)
for goodness’s sake. Rouge removes
easily enough with holy water.

Polish the piano till gilt cherubs burn,
lend St. Peter to tune honky tonk into hymnal,
take communicable recyclables from the lips
drinking full-bodied fruit punch in front.

Whisper protection for Dan, the trainer.
Sprinkle sawdust, caramels in the lion’s cage,
hold fast dangerous mouths that might find fault
(and howl sharply, jagged derision).

The conjoined mime-twins curs-ed
with a permanent frog of the throat-
with my staff performing
miracles in one tent I can pray

inside the other, borrow honey
from the milky albino’s trailer.
Serve solemn tea in the once-gypsy
wagon made cave-like with coal

discarded canvas. Knitted kettle-cozy
emblazoned with the flaming heart
for emphasis- votive candles
evocative of a cathedral, no bordello!

Bless us captain, lamb bones buried
near fair grounds, I found these sweet freaks
searching for that blue-blood soul
if he’d ever make port, like a proper sailor…

Read the Book of Philemon
to the masses eating fried dough
in the silence of powdered sugar prayer.
I’ll starch my wimple with petticoats.

Silence petty arguments about rope
and wives with calming song, Ecclesiastes, a “please”
is all it takes. Coil beads inside pocket,
fetch thimble and mend the main tent

—horsehair, red silk.
Collect coins, stamp small hands
allow entry into this place of light.