Here's some "old stuff" that I just wanted to get on here (moving it from an older blog to here.) It's from Spring 2007
B-Listed
Owners of dysfunctional handbags lay sprawled and ragged, dismissed by societal gatherings, in gutters. Looking like puddles of fine silk undergarments running through the already filthy streets. Their superiors walked by, click-clack-clickity-clackity of the women's fine leather pumps set a rhythmic tune for the scene. Blood-red cashmere stockings ran into the sewer grates, mocking their counterparts. The night was lit by cigarette lighters and manicured fingernails ashing their filtered Djarums into the sea of rejected beaded gowns. I wonder what it would feel like to be on the A-list?
Passion
Small things
Paler than your mother's hands
Rest heavy
On the pillow behind your ear
Whispering everything
All the nothings wanted to say
On mute
To be sweet and romantic
Like father's
Slowly thinning hair
Smaller things
Burn the brand on your ankle
Holding you
Up and out for years
Day Lilies
Dear Daewoo,
Why are your shoes so blue?
Like distasteful umbrellas in the standby cocktails.
Votre petite sips from petit straws,
mimicking honey birds suckling nectar from organic blossoms
Delivering painful tips to the tender for nursing your bliss.
Is it true that your shoes were once black?
But have faded in travel from bleaching rays?
I do say I would fancy a whispered story…or two.
My ears eager to hear of nights sipping chamomile
from foreign china, aloft the aging backs of Indian elephants
or of Princes rescuing Princesses from tigers' luring purrs.
I would fancy it, dear old Daewoo.
I told you so,
BLB 1544
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