Purple Thoughts
by Margaret Pomeroy
Sweet figs, rpened
Amethyst crystal
Cleopatra.
Dawn through stained glass
Goblet of wine
The Pope.
Cracked Easter egg
Grape soda. spilled
Joe Christmas.
Stormy desert sky
Prickley pear jelly
PFC Cori Ann Piestenva.
Queen's jewels
Priest's robes
Child's bruises
Soldier's medals--
PURPLE
and mourning in Thailand...
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Here are more words!!!
mourning, Thailand,priest,queen, prickley, jelly grape, goblet, pope,amethyst,figs,repen,easter,burise,thought,art,man,top,flight,roller coaster,apparition,freemartin, twenty, open-ended, thirty, applegate,avenue,darling,antonia,georgia, doormat, candle,piano, tonsil, eatery,elephant,boa,peter pan,callipe,music box, caveman, dandruff,dublin,cork,county tipparary
mourning, Thailand,priest,queen, prickley, jelly grape, goblet, pope,amethyst,figs,repen,easter,burise,thought,art,man,top,flight,roller coaster,apparition,freemartin, twenty, open-ended, thirty, applegate,avenue,darling,antonia,georgia, doormat, candle,piano, tonsil, eatery,elephant,boa,peter pan,callipe,music box, caveman, dandruff,dublin,cork,county tipparary
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
I Scrutinize with Anamorphic Lens
I sit at the bar at Club Zero, a Marlborough cig
in one hand, as I sip on one of those
famous snowball martinis that everyone
who's anyone always drinks.
I enjoy conversations about anything
and everything extraordinary, crude or...
controversial.
Take for instant, the carcinogenic
memorabilia on the walls at Club Zero.
A plethora of nostalgia, like
that 1920's telephone, that Granny
probably talked on. An imitation flag
touting the Civil war (probably scavenged from
some auctioneer in sheepskin, from the Catskills).
Can you believe two pink boobs with strawberry tits,
interjected between pad Miro` Lithographs
and Leonardo drawings, and I don't mean
Leonardo DiCaprio, mind you!
It clearly screams invidious, venereal, and foul.
But, my friend Arlene says it's experimental art.
I say crap. She giggles; I laugh maniacally;
we toast to the vulgarity of the wall.
Through the smoke filled bar my eyes catch a
glimpse of this Harvard prima Donna in strange buckskin
plodding in our direction like Marshall Dillon.
Annie get your gun girl, I laughingly whispered to Arlene.
We'd better head for the Carpathian Mountains
before this flamboyant Prometheus with slingshot
below his belt deems us heirs to his seduction.
Well Casanova turned out to be a madcap version
of the bumbling Inspector Clouseau.
Just like the Pink Panther he was quite certain that
the bartender was really a fugitive mobster
with a sidearm under his white apron.
But we two little ladies were not to worry,
we would both be protected, and undetected
behind the green shrubbery near the wall.
We were both privy to his bottommost secrets
if we would only listen quietly, he lamented.
Arlene, being suggestible, was infatuated,
head over heals, I swear, for this asinine,
laughingstock dodo.
They would probably honeymoon on the Love Boat
by the end of the week I reckoned.
I sat back like a ringmaster, albeit with a bit of pessimism,
had another cig, a sip of my martini, and with anamorphic lens
I viewed the whole inglorious scene.
I sit at the bar at Club Zero, a Marlborough cig
in one hand, as I sip on one of those
famous snowball martinis that everyone
who's anyone always drinks.
I enjoy conversations about anything
and everything extraordinary, crude or...
controversial.
Take for instant, the carcinogenic
memorabilia on the walls at Club Zero.
A plethora of nostalgia, like
that 1920's telephone, that Granny
probably talked on. An imitation flag
touting the Civil war (probably scavenged from
some auctioneer in sheepskin, from the Catskills).
Can you believe two pink boobs with strawberry tits,
interjected between pad Miro` Lithographs
and Leonardo drawings, and I don't mean
Leonardo DiCaprio, mind you!
It clearly screams invidious, venereal, and foul.
But, my friend Arlene says it's experimental art.
I say crap. She giggles; I laugh maniacally;
we toast to the vulgarity of the wall.
Through the smoke filled bar my eyes catch a
glimpse of this Harvard prima Donna in strange buckskin
plodding in our direction like Marshall Dillon.
Annie get your gun girl, I laughingly whispered to Arlene.
We'd better head for the Carpathian Mountains
before this flamboyant Prometheus with slingshot
below his belt deems us heirs to his seduction.
Well Casanova turned out to be a madcap version
of the bumbling Inspector Clouseau.
Just like the Pink Panther he was quite certain that
the bartender was really a fugitive mobster
with a sidearm under his white apron.
But we two little ladies were not to worry,
we would both be protected, and undetected
behind the green shrubbery near the wall.
We were both privy to his bottommost secrets
if we would only listen quietly, he lamented.
Arlene, being suggestible, was infatuated,
head over heals, I swear, for this asinine,
laughingstock dodo.
They would probably honeymoon on the Love Boat
by the end of the week I reckoned.
I sat back like a ringmaster, albeit with a bit of pessimism,
had another cig, a sip of my martini, and with anamorphic lens
I viewed the whole inglorious scene.
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