Long Dressed to kill Poems
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As a writer, I am charmingly unoriginal. I use the same letters as everyone else and much of the identical punctuation but in my defense, Coca-Colas are all the same, and each one is delightfully refreshing.
On Sundays my Grandmère throws these fêtes, ‘social lunches’ where anyone might drop in - attendance, I‘m told, can be a social signal. Two weeks ago, it was fashion week and ‘smart society’ (the vampire pale and dangerously thin individuals casually dressed to kill) were trolling for fun.
There were about 150 people there, like the Mayor of Paris, Saint Laurent’s Anthony Vaccarello, Léna Situations (GenZ influencer), Just Riadh (comedian), Delphine Arnault and the Archbishop of Paris - to name a few. But I was only there for a half an hour, and it wasn’t my job to take roll.
Now, these parties all play-out, to me, like romcom ‘problem comedies.’ You have the ever-present and delicate aroma of cocktails, an Archbishop (subconsciously dangling the high trap of moral purification and great, heavenly rewards), elder frenchmen, like my uncle Remy with his languid, cigarette-lipped, smoke-cured profanity, some models hoping to be seen and younger, eager eyed, corporate boy-men types ogling every feminine creature with alcoholic heartiness.
I don’t think Grandmère sees the fun undercard of human foibles, but there are big alcohol-fueled feelings in every register as these events hit their peak. Growing up, at these things, I’d sit quietly in a corner, usually with a book, pretending to read and just people watch. Everyone’s coming and going (‘free-drinks’) but 30 or 40 people are always around somewhere.
These days, Peter shares my little, flowered, corner settee. We sit, shoulder to shoulder, and snark, like huckstas for a sports book, about who’s thirsty for whom. It’s all questionable information, surface impressions and instant verdicts.
.
.
A Song for this:
Someone In The Crowd - Emma Stone, Callie Hernandez, Sonoya Mizuno & Jessica Rothe
The crook of vampire’s bed, the moth and silk.
Each time he slept, a century’d gone by.
Afraid of key and lock, and lock of ilk—
hers golden spun atop the steeple spry.
The belfry bell at midnight’s bite, a cry—
no priest did hear confess as blight befell.
The fading moon, the hollow breach of hell.
Awakes to candlelight, the shrouded draw
of curtains forestry in thick of knell.
She hears the eek and shred of sharpest claws.
The bat is never satisfied, his eyes
do pierce the longest gloom of Winter’s white.
His dark decrepit cape— a purple vine.
The brood of brows and lids release no light.
Along the drift, one’s cross is much too bright.
The bloodsucker attentive, her laughter—
his strife. He clasps his ears. His thoughts chase her.
She hides below her hood— she’s dressed to kill.
This century he’d caught a chill— class fur
with stake. Her prowess aim— to break his will.
9/21/20
Emile Pinet’s Dizain contest
All submitted poems must use :
https://www.rhymezone.com/
https://www.howmanysyllables.com
Asinine
The Poem
Spit and glue
Tape on glasses
Lace on wrinkled rumps
Lipstick on lizards
Ants in bee-hives
Parties in the cemeteries
Toothfairy bank robbers
Dunces in libraries.
Rhymes on caution signs
Large Letters for the deaf
and hearing aids for the blind-
Asinine.
I think, to see a cripple crabs with crutches,
bow-legged spiders with a pigeon toe-ed cat.
Or a knock-knee-ed rabbit- with a Multi-Colored Bat
Apes eating hor devours
Amish wearing Hats no-more
Imagine the scenic scene
That we would see-
If the Sky replaced the sea-
Spit and Glue will never do-Spit
won't do, when you need glue.
Dressed to kill with taped up glasses,Lace on strippers
with wrinkled rumps
It's a crazy poem but I really feel
You should never read rhymes on caution signs.
CAUTION
Look up here
have no fear –
There have been
twenty-six
accidents right here-
When you slow up
to read this rhyme
you may get hit
from behind
cross the white
line and smash
over the medium
Aching for my presence
she called me late one night.
She wanted to have
a night cap,
and she knows I do it right.
Forty five minutes later,
on the counties outer rim.
I pull into the driveway,
of her old
Victorian.
Striking lightly with my knuckles
on the front door made of oak.
she opens the door,
powder blue negligee
high heels.
My jaw hit the floor.
Caramel surprise,
nude, she's dressed to kill.
Candles glowing throughout the house
relaxing music in the distance.
She drops her robe,
standing there,
testing my resistance.
The curvature of her waistline,
tapering to long,
well toned thighs.
Breasts proportionate to her figure.
Standing six foot tall
is a beauty just my size.
Unable to control my sergeant,
she receives a standing ovation.
Reaching down, she caresses me,
what a wonderful sensation.
I push her onto the mattress,
forcing my way between her thighs.
She twists and turns violently,
whimpering a series
of sultry cries.
Jared Pickett
10/11/09
Asavvy1
Two Pair of Shoes
My Loafers wandered out one day
when I (too lazy) chose to stay
home alone and drink Bombay,
one evening in the Spring
They came upon a pair of Heels
that walked the streets in sexy squeals
composed of skin from river eels,
one evening in the Spring
They danced the night away that June
underneath the bright blue moon
As Frank Sinatra slowly crooned,
one evening in the Spring
But when the sun rose in the morn
the pair, exhausted and well-worn
tiptoed home, alone, forlorn
one evening in the Spring
Nine months later, dressed to kill
The Heels appeared and stood quite still
to present to Loafers…an Espadrille
one evening in the Fall
songer.co/song/pkxe5d33ackl9jknz4ucezf1
[Verse 1]
She walks in slow, like a storm that won’t break,
Got eyes like ash and a mouth full of ache,
Dressed to kill, in some kind of spell,
She’ll kiss your lips, then drag you through hell.
[Pre-Chorus]
Don’t need your love, don’t want your name,
She lights the match and walks through the flame,
She’s got that itch, and it cuts down deep,
Like a red-hot secret you can’t keep.
[Chorus]
Woo-hoo, Itchy Woman,
Boy, you ain't gonna win,
Woo-hoo, Itchy Woman,
She’ll take your soul, wear it like skin.
[Verse 2]
She moves like smoke through a midnight track,
Her love’s a curse you can’t give back,
Leaves you twitchin’ like a man gone cracked,
It’s fire and brimstone ridin’ your back.
She once had love, but it turned to rust,
Now she don't trust nothin’ but dust,
Ain’t no tears left, just that crown of thorns,
A queen of wreckage and southern scorn.
[Pre-Chorus]
She won’t flinch when you start to beg,
She’ll drag your heart like a ball and chain leg,
She’ll twist your mind and turn you around,
With every whisper, you’re forever bound.
[Chorus]
Woo-hoo, Itchy Woman,
Boy, you ain't gonna win,
Woo-hoo, Itchy Woman,
She’ll take your soul, wear it like skin.
[Bridge]
Oh, it’s a wild ride, with a dangerous thrill,
You know she’ll haunt you, it’s a bitter pill,
So next time you see her, just think twice,
An Itchy Woman’s love comes with a price.
[Final Chorus]
Woo-hoo, Itchy Woman,
Can’t escape the game,
Woo-hoo, Itchy Woman,
You’ll never be the same.
Note: Inspired by the Eagles band, and their amazing “Witchy Woman”
The stage is set, the stage is full…
Now occupied by clowns and fools
By amateurs who think that the rules
Exist for someone else to use
Against all those "like us who choose
To bend the world to suit our will.
Just look at us, we're dressed to kill."
It's an amateur production so what'd you expect?
You get what you pay for and when we elect
What would be Tony-worthy it helps us connect
A night at the opera to a script of neglect
Singing Soprano in matters of state
And Mob mentality casting our fate
To the winds of war that always blow ill
From a yawning maw that time cannot fill
The worst thing about this is what's come before
It's a book and a movie we've all seen and more
Commedia dell'arte? More commedia dell'boor
Theatre of the absurd without ceiling or floor
The rigging, the fly, and the catwalk all float
Suspense of reality in one leaky boat
Orchestrating it all from the pit and the podium
Conducting enthroned on a golden commode he, um...
Discharges his dispatches into the night
Where they flitter and twitter and X out the light
There truth is a joke and the race is a fight
To the bottom, whose bottom? his bottom, that's right
Where the output is put out there in the dark
A step up would be needed to even be snark
So lowly it's solely fit for the bin
Heaven forfend it should twist in the wind
For the stench left behind is beneath us, but still
It will take all our disinfectant and will
To clean up the mess that's been left behind
In this darkening theater under the mind
So lower the curtain and bring up the lights
And clean up around your own seat 'fore your flight
Into brighter horizons and rational thought
And consider this all as a battle you've fought
In a test of the limits of our democracy
That brought to the world a model that we
Could be proud of and lend to those yearning to be
In pursuit of the fruit of their own liberty
The Jezebel Katrina
It was a nasty wind that blew
Upon the shore that day.
She howled and hissed but would not desist
She had to have her way.
She was a lady of the night
And she was dressed to kill.
She blared and she glared, and she even dared
To do the devil's will.
She made her way into the bay
Upon that fateful eve.
Inside New Orleans you could hear the screams
Of those who were naive.
She ranted, raved and misbehaved
Way past the midnight hour,
With her hips swaying and the town folk praying
For the harlot to lose her power.
Katrina left the bay at last
Cackling on her way.
All that remains are the ungodly stains
Of a lady who went astray. . .
Characters in action
Talents in multiplication
Shapes and sizes of many version
Skills on display with tension
Over the top ropes one would gape
Under the ropes one can escape
Apron of thick mattress
Arena of countless matches
Highlighted are dressed to kill
Fronting the crowd that fill
Seats of spectators that cheer
Feats of competitors, not jeer
Matches roll with blunder
Rumbling and grappling like thunder
Crutches and splints spread over
Bodies of the bruised fall over
Grueling matches live on
Under any pressure show must go on
It's not "business as usual" that linger
Players of theatrics in danger
Venues are slated by dates
Participants stipulated as mates
Previews of expected bouts
Reviews that excite and shouts
Year after year is the Rumble
Inside the ring that crumble
Event that sounds so noble
Fame, not fortune that bubble
A prelude to Wrestlemania
An interlude of regalia
A shot coveted in spotlight
A spot asserted with delight
Let's get ready to rumble!...
He was a serial lover.
Like no other.
His words flowed like smooth swoon song.
Led you away, took you along.
Feelings spun, you lost control.
Dressed to kill, he knew his role.
Wandering across the night,
He moved and prowled without fright.
Youth’s passing moonwalk phase,
Did no end make his craze.
He was a little man,
Not by girth but wisdom’s span.
With his belly full of oats and fire,
He chased the flames of love’s desire.
His music touched most every heart,
Even those not prone to start,
Sweaty hot lightening trysts,
Whose sorry dawn would end in mists.
In the morning folly was blamed,
On fire even the shrewd are tamed.
Shaking off the heat of lust,
His women did what women must:
Left and right they looked in vain,
Only finding a superlative stain.
The tiger was gone, off and far,
A winking door left ajar.
Evening’s delicate victuals taken,
Most satisfied and now awaken,
He conjured yet another plan,
Oh this beast, this brute, this little man!
Seasons passed, years went by,
His naughty charms refused to die.
With a skip and bounce,
His paws did announce,
“I got you, got you my little prey,
Stay and play just today”
Reckoning’s day came pretty slow,
His magic began to lose its glow.
The girly ladies who made his fame,
Conspired all to stop the shame,
Seated by a blazing fire,
Chants were sung to stop the liar.
Spirits conjured to slow him down,
A watchman posted in every town,
His limbs by spells began to shrink,
Especially one that could not think,
Of a life devout lived in chaste,
Or the fire gone beneath his waist.
With speed did rumors make it known,
Just to leave the fox alone,
On every door a note was posted,
Never again was the tiger hosted.
Nights now spent in aimless drift,
Every move evoked short shrift.
Alone he wandered, alone he sailed,
All his pleas always failed.
Eons it took for reality to dawn:
His presence hardly nary’d a yawn
By the babes once at his feet,
They now stood grinning at his defeat!
How his heart bled in memory’s lane,
For the lovely birds his ways had slain!
Thinking of all the dames,
He failed to remember their cuddly names.
He once was a serial lover,
With a story like no other.