~ Hallway of Framed Poems ~

List #1


Street Corner Cinderella


I took the keys
from my Fairy Godmother
and the pumpkin turned into a black Ferrari,
a coffin in which my latest nightmare
will once again,
leave me a skeleton in the light of the moon,
dripping with codeine, whiskey, and cigars,
in the tent of some John.

I have never seen the “I Am Legend” film,
but I am a legend, nonetheless,
under the gasoline lamps of Harlem,
where by day,
the children play on their iPads with headphones,
‘til the fog of night sets down
and their mothers hustle them off to sleeping bags.

Another lighter flicks on
and a cigarette is exchanged for a trick
in an abandoned warehouse
that smells of burnt marshmallows and dog piss.

Will I be the next to be dumped in the woods,
a necklace of strangulation marks around my neck
from the gloves of a cannibal,
a soul-eating pimp who didn’t get his pay on time?

The bow and arrows of Artemis, could not pierce my heart more
than the scissors used to push the heroin into lines,
that feel like an axe upon my skull.

I tried to climb Jacob’s Ladder to Heaven once,
but it was covered in oil
and I fell, slipping down
into the city’s mesh of barbed wire.

The Ferrari turns back into a pumpkin
and  I am once again “She”;
no death tonight, while the children awaken to their toothbrushes
and the diner table awaits;
my bed of nails.

Looking forward to writing, but a stupid question: what is "biro" in list -3 ?  was that supposed to be "bird", or is it one of those British/American cultural differences like the donuts-thing? Lol :D

I might be taking a jab at too ... Thanks the Gods for the 3 month deadline!! ^_^

Boom!  List #2:



The Groupie Wife
(Ode to Pamela Des Barres, “super-groupie” of 1960’s heyday)

Facebook didn’t exist yet,
nor did Disneyland Paris,
or a Harry Potter Box set,
but she did—
Pamela.

Sprung from the muses of the minds of the Rock Gods,
Morrisson, Jagger, Page,
so many others….
she gave the rainbow to their rain
and the entry to euphoria
in the backseats of their cars
and in the beds of their hotel rooms.

She had the monopoly on their concert halls,
that smelled of popcorn
and sour milk and candy floss
that plasters the floors around the water fountains
backstage.

They, in their T-shirts
and she, in yellow tracksuits and orange boots,
managed to glamorize all the hideous styles
that were the rage back then—
the Age of Aquarius,
dawning on the calendar of early ‘70’s.

How many suitcases went through airports
while she lounged by swimming pools
as butlers with arm bands, dutifully held towels
while pretending to be blind
to the needles, candles and mirrors
that spiced up the days
and filled ashtrays by night?

Pamela the wasp,
still buzzes around the limelight of fame,
as anthems from her past,
seep from the radio.

Bottled water and chocolate
fill her mug from the kettle,
as she is older and still in need of no crucifix,
for her balloon has yet to burst.

Crazy, I've been wanting to ask: Is it valid if we use the list words in the plural? Thanks...

My Life: a Brief History

I know this will all die with me.

My stepfather would let the camcorder drop
onto my breasts and bottom. He always
hit me but at twelve he became suddenly
affectionate. I used to stare at my posters
of INXS and the Monkees and cry.
Later I wore vintage keys on a necklace
and black satin gloves. I never dreamed
of a black Ferrari but a Model T.
I loved a guy who looked like Robert Smith
but he told me cruel things
and once at his house
his friends asked for a scissors
and I didn’t understand but he was angry
and embarrassed yet I didn’t believe him,
I knew he was part of it.
For some reason I was in love with death,
probably because I ached for it so many times
to ease the suffering of my peculiar existence.
I took a job with skeletons and coffins
and was perfectly at home. The sight
of an abandoned warehouse filled me
with frightened awe and fascination,
envisioning dried blood and a body count.
At the same time something pulled me
to the boudoir, I was scared of my own
developing appetites and yearning
and longed for the sight of men at whiskey
and cigars. I suppose my dream home was
somebody’s nightmare, fog and light from the moon
dripping onto the crumbling towers of a Carpathian
castle. I used to snort chipped Nyquil
from my daughter’s compact,
longing for real codeine to induce
the sweet oblivion of sleep.
My daughter's favorite movie was I Am Legend,
for her own escape was the post-apocalyptic
wasteland, that arid, beautiful
emptiness and lack of human distortion.
I craved her scent in my nostrils
while she loved the smell of gasoline.
She’s only sixteen and I've already found her
lighters but I’m a bad parent, I can’t stop her,
I chain-smoked for years along with a video
game addiction and her neglect. My
character was a hunter who shot
incendiary arrows with a magic bow
in an enchanted woods.  
My daughter would go camping
with her father then. They would
put up a tent and roast marshmallows.
I’d always hear about it when she came
home, bringing the sleeping bag
with her. I thought I could
smell him on it, and it made me cry.
She was the ladder out of myself
and I knew no existence before her.
Now she uses her iPad and headphones
to drown out my words. I stare at her
infant pictures, haunted by the scent
of lavender and baby oil.
Dreams of terror still plague me.
The both of us stranded somewhere,
hunger turning us into cannibals
and fighting to eat each other alive.
Once I was Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest,
chopping at her with an axe.
I couldn’t teach her faith because I
didn’t trust a god who kept naked people
behind barbed wire and let his own son
be hung by nails. My own strange mother
who hated me because I left
my toothbrush in the shower, convinced
it was I who gave the dog
lung cancer. Grandma in the hospital,
platinum wedding ring on her gnarled finger,
the strange blue of her nails.

I sit now at the table
wondering where all this will go,
maybe off into time or electrons
or to the stars.
Knowing one day I shall turn
into a silent, soulless pumpkin
come dawn.

This comp is hard, but I'm going to attempt it. I'll definitely be back.

List #1

Defining Moments

Tonight I yearn for your love
In unspeakable ways.
I stick headphones in my ears
To drown out my husband's questioning.
How could he ever understand what's wrong?
I lock myself in the bathroom with his iPad,
And because Will Smith looks like you,
I watch I Am Legend for the hundredth time,
But I'm not really watching. I'm
Thinking about when I used to watch
You sleep and trace the outline
Of the tattoo on your chest:
A stick figure
Climbing a ladder
To the moon,
A fusion of Keith Haring and Banksy.
Reminiscing, I fall asleep on the toilet.

The nightmare changes,
But the end's always the same.
Your funeral.
An open coffin
Holding skeleton remains.
The night takes me back to the day
When we were both sixteen.
The day your father threw you out
For dating what he deemed
"A privileged white bitch."

I was the girl
Who sipped pumpkin spiced lattes
From Starbucks.
I was the girl
Who wore necklaces
Of stringed emeralds, diamonds and pearls.
I was the girl
Who slipped gloves
As white as marshmallows
Over French manicured nails.
I was the girl
Who owned a luxury sports car
Given to me by my parents
For my sixteenth birthday.
I was the girl
Who expected the world
To bow down to me.
Above all, I was the reason
Your father watched his father
Get lynched.

It didn't matter
That my nights were spent
Wrapped in a sleeping bag
That had been left in the corner
Of the allegedly haunted
Abandoned warehouse.
It didn't matter
That I didn't even own a toothbrush,
Let alone the keys to
A black Ferrari
Or a white Audi
Or a princess pink Lexus.
It didn't matter
That all I did own was a
Stolen candle to mask
The smell of shaved wood,
A lighter low on gasoline,
And enough anxiety
For my hands to constantly
Feel drenched in oil.
It didn't matter
That I wanted nothing
But acceptance for loving you.

Despite your father's wishes
You did not expel me from your life.
Instead, you exchanged a bed
For sleep and intimacy
In a single sleeping bag
On the floor of the dust covered
Warehouse that you used your savings
To make into our home.
Cleared out a few axes, a chainsaw,
A table with three legs,  
And the timid white girl
You loved enough
To assuage her trepidations
With your infamous mantra.
"All arrows point up from here."
And when you finished,
You were proud enough
To invite friends over
And play poker,
Without money or chips,
Just the fog of cigar smoke
And the cacophony of laughter.

The nightmare changes,
But the end's always the same.
Your funeral.
An open coffin
Holding skeleton remains.
The night takes me back to the day
When we were both eighteen,
The day you did all you could for me
To recover from a gum infection.
When the whiskey didn't cut it,
You stole a bottle of codeine,
Which landed you behind
A barbed wire fence
In an orange jumpsuit
For nine long months.

It was during those nine months
That you decided optimism
Was the wrong answer all along.
It was during those nine months
That you abandoned your mantra.
It was during those nine months
That you decided you needed to be
A cannibal in this dog-eat-dog world.
It was during those nine months
That I moved into a shelter.
It was during those nine months
That my stomach ballooned
To the size of a blow up tent.
It was during those nine months
That I held a sharp pair of scissors to my wrist
After receiving the news
That you had lost your final dog fight.
It was after those nine months
That the nightmare began.
At the end of those nine months,
Nothing would ever be the same.

The nightmare changes,
But the end's always the same.
Your funeral.
An open coffin
Holding skeleton remains.