the burlesque poetess(s)

poem-a-day week21 “Broad hip’d broadcast markup language”

i’m everso everso tardy/be-hind/betwixt & ‘tween & playing awful ketchup, mes amis. do forgive me. last sat. (Cynthia von Buhler-world) to now (and it’s not over yet!) have been some of the most overstimulating art wankery ginormous and important-to-me performances of my life. and i started teaching my zine workshop! happy lady. full service multimedia freelance burlesque poetess & professoress, at yo soivece.

September 20-26, 2010 week21: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7
http://locksmithy.livejournal.com/tag/poem-a-day
http://poetesss.tumblr.com/PAD

140. September 21, 2010 (tues.)

I. Busking “MinInstruments” (tinys + Edrie!)

When sexy Communists—
i mean dominatrix Socialists—
i mean socialites of sidewalks

Get out of the car button’d like Louise
Brooks, bee-stung bob ready for the front line—
(Queue swimming with green paper)

Autocoaches crash abrubtly, yellow spyglasses
Tinkle of glass, a tin giggle in the distance

We are now lousy with illegit’ $2 bills
Pauvre Thomas Jefferson
(He didn’t seem like a “1 belt” kind of guy)

II. Hypothesis Show première

Once upon a childhood paleontologist—
i mean middle school marine biologists—
i mean all grown up burlesque

Inquisitive minds must combine
Experimental tassel twirling, subverting
The strip tease, tighty whiteys

And poetry of womanism, faces on flour and syrup
Food product like Frank-n-Furter’s
Garter’d lovechild with Marie Antoinette

Singing phallus, beckoning to be
Lap partners—
i mean lab partners

img of Kirby Bits from ‘Midnight Vultures’ by Lacy Gazelle, FB & top hipstamatic of Edrie from her FB

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

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12. for @artwmn (yes, they asked for ‘fisting’)

“sorry, gone fisting”

i was shocked the first time
i pressed the magic-marker-inscribed button
on the robot’s cardboard breast
the rainbow command module:
“fist” followed “cunt punch”
“hump” and “dance”
respectively—
basic binary commands
only the blonds could understand
how to negotiate their neck through the box’s
head-hole, it seemed
we should have minored in impromptu
halloween costumes
late nights taking turns
giving the Dustbuster a haircut
watching Dirty Dancing
huddling in a single bed
each time a boy got in a car
accident, too often
whiteboard battles between
“Super Prego” and god knows
what else
was on our minds
distracting each other
ordering paper cones
so we could pee standing up—
and in convenient travel size
solos on oboe to accompany the
ritual leg-shaving (for the last time)
over a newspaper spread eagle
so the scattered loveknot could be mailed, tenderly
with the disposable Lady’s Schick
to someone else’s lovesick
high school sweetheart

by your poetesss, j.m. lazar