Paloma P Poet Burlesque

Rose-Red Delusional Grandeur

poetically fractured retractions
   gnashing night prayers, 
scribbling braille,
     written sideways
 dipped in holy water's resolution,
compromising statements
     of disbelief's proclamation
spinning music the color
     of nakedly sick psycho, yet
burnished souls keep on ticking
   quarter past total trade-offs
   in a spoonful of smoky reflections
         sans acid's sugar trip,
anointed of rose-reddish
        bloody false pretenses
dancing off center phases
       in disillusioned
   pirouettes of pseudo redemption,
whirling out of control on
         staged tapestry's loftiness
   surrendered ballet slippers 
        in blistered half promises,
as twisted metaphors sprightly
       tuned out spun anomalies
below birds on a rusty wire tweeting
     admissions' cobalt blue hazed execution,
rendered inky alterations' inquisitions 
        'pon pedaled pink fluff profundity,
exhaling paroxysms' jazzily engaged poesy
    in vehemently enraged deliverance,
naught one is ever as they seem
  through pigmented film 'neath
    figment's imagined looking glass
         of ingratiated delusional grandeur

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Lim'Rik Flats January 8, 2017 at 9:23 AM That was fun! Now excuse me please, I have to go wring out my anomalusses. Carolyn Fish January 14, 2017 at 8:06 AM hahaha

Freddie Robinson Jr. December 17, 2016 at 11:02 PM The full arsenal of mixed metaphors was tossed in this poem, Paloma. Scorched earth poetry, eh. Don't leave the frazzled mind standing able to recover. Blow by blow death poetry. As you aptly phrased ... birds on a rusty wire tweeting admissions' cobalt blue hazed execution ... Your pen is dipped in hemlock on this one. Or am I just being delusional? Another avant-garde masterpiece. Love and joy to you.

Doug Vinson December 15, 2016 at 11:38 PM This poem looked beautiful as I made the web page scroll down, so all the words fit on my screen, before I'd read any of it. It's the positioning of everything, and the mixture of long and short words. It is a roller-coaster ride of images and emotions, perhaps in and out of exact comprehension, taking its own vengeance with apocalyptic devastation. It throws bombs at us. Yet the biggest explosion would be if there were no such expression.

Chris Green December 15, 2016 at 11:23 AM The lines are cold and unforgiving but still we must stand in them to get what little they are offering. Basted in reflections and streets lights, the song of those warm and happy come about like static on a winter wind, biting through this second hand or perhaps third hand jacket that any self-respecting moth would have no part of. Don't mind me, I have just returned from a trip to another world where all is as it seems but never really is. Out of control Paloma. This one aches.

Daniel Turner December 15, 2016 at 9:25 AM I check mine at the door. The soup kitchen is a humbling place. Nice write. Paloma:) Daniel Turner December 15, 2016 at 10:00 AM Gee Yogi, Thanks:) Paloma P December 15, 2016 at 9:48 AM You're smarter than the average bear BooBoo. :)

White Wolf December 15, 2016 at 6:16 AM How do you do that? You just hit another level here I think! Paloma P December 15, 2016 at 8:05 AM I don't know, how do you do it?! ") Merci beaucoup Rick!