Dive Lounge Diva

They call her the dive lounge diva

Her bright red lipstick is a bit garish

It bleeds into the fine lines around her mouth where she sucks

in the cigarette smoke

Her brassy blonde hair is a bit unnatural

Some would call her tight, faded dress

tacky

but she feels glamorous

especially after her third drink

She holds court with her admirers:

cabbies waiting for a fare

alchoholics

unemployed

the ranks of losers and misfits 

who feel more at home in dives

than at home (if they have a home, that is)

The dive lounge diva used to be famous

She used to sing sold out shows

Sign autographs

Date dashing gentlemen 

who wore carnations in their lapels

Hang about with the high lifes

the dilettantes

She had great legs

The dive lounge diva

watches a shell-shocked vet drop

a coin into the jukebox

She bets she could still belt out a tune

if anyone ever asked.

submitted for The Mag, Mag 145

Red Chair

Web of Dreams

Doll by Emma Whitlock

Each night

I part the curtain that separates

Reality from dream

Stepping through I

Become

Symbol archetype meaning metaphor

I lose concreteness

Skin bone blood  

Ephemeral things

Mutable

Climbing through windows of myth

Drifting on currents of time

I meet myself

In sweet moments of lucidity

Then become lost in a labyrinth

Of consciousness

A Minotaur trapped

In my own mind's maze

Struggling to break free

Then

Daylight

Opening my eyes still sticky from sleep

I find a silken thread

Clinging to an eyelash.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Sunday Mini Challenge

I Tried

image source

I tried

to dress your wounds

with a piece of worn burlap

but the weave was rough

against your raw hurt

and the blood seeped through 

I tried

to fill your belly

from an empty bowl

but all I could offer

were apologies

so you left hungry

I tried

to calm your mind

with platitudes

but I could stop the storm from raging

with bromides

I had to stand in the downpour

to understand its fury

I tried
to warm you
with a burlap blanket 
but the fibers
let in the cold

I tried

to embrace you

but my arms have been bound

to my sides

so all I can give you

are wishes and prayers

But I tried

I really tried.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, A Word With Laurie, Burlap

Two of Seven

Moderation packs his bags

along with the husband and kid

I am left here with Gluttony

She has been waiting

biding her time

She knows all too well

I will not resist her beckoning

We eye each other shyly at first

like long separated lovers

intimate, yet strangers

Then it begins as it always does

Urgent yearning

Ravenous reaching

Hungry, ferocious, gape mouthed grasping

Desirous devouring

Instinctual, insatiable appetite

I am voracious

I want more

more

MORE!

Finally it ends as it always does

Feeling sticky dirty

sick

with nothing left.

source

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Out of Standard with Izy, The Guilty Pleasure

She Gets By

photo by rosie hardy

She’s such a freak

Her head is a mess

But she’s lookin’ fine

In that tight, black dress

The men, they don’t care

That her eyes are dead

‘Cause she comes alive

When she’s in their beds

The girl, she gets by

She’s sad; she don’t know why

Maybe tomorrow, she’ll try a little harder

But for now she’ll let it lie

The guys, they all think

They’re good for her

‘Cause she gives them a smile

A kiss and a purr

But just underneath

Her painted on pink

Are fangs that will bite

And sharp claws that sink

Into their flesh

To bleed til it’s clean

But she really don’t mean

To be so mean

The girl, she gets by

She’s scared; she don’t know why

Maybe tomorrow, she’ll try a little harder

But tonight, she’ll just stay high.


submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Open Link Monday

Get Off

image courtesy of mobius faith

Feel the rush through your veins

Baby, you live to score

You’ve gotten your hit

Now you love me much more

You’re sweeter than Karo

When you swear that you’ll quit

But you get off on guilt

That’s some really sick shit

My apartment is filled

With your gifts of remorse

You say it’s because of

Your parents’ divorce

Your puppy dog eyes

They beg me to stay

But you are an addict

And we end up this way

You get off on guilt

You get high from regret

You keep messin’ up

And it’s not over yet

I won’t sell my soul

On your street any more

Confess your transgressions

To a priest or some whore

You get off on guilt

Such a sin devotee

I’m done dealin’ forgiveness

Your fixes for free

You get off on guilt

Stay away from my door

‘Cause you’re not gonna use me

To get yourself off any more.

Submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Music WithMarian, Soon Enough (Aimee Mann)

and dVerse Poets Pub, dVerse Poetics, Photography by Terry S. Amstutz