Poster girl

This one was inspired by the constant battery of perfume advertisements that seems to accompany the winter holiday season. The images of women who look like they have been lobotomized or seriously drugged as they float through wispy clouds and satin drapery. Ooo, la la. 


              Living with hunger

She’s learned to live with hunger
and shoes that cause her pain.
“She’s every man’s desire.”
Oh, not that crap again!

You can see her on the TV
and in posters on the street,
but she doesn’t look like
any living woman you might meet.

Now she whispers to the camera.
She’s only wearing gauze.
Your eyes are glazing over, darling.
Here’s a cloth to wipe your jaw.

It’s just an advertisement.
She’s a phantom, my dear man!
Come serve the goddess in your household.
That is… if you still can.

 

Invitation

There’s a shop window I occasionally pass, that has an enormous door standing on display. It’s theatrical, it’s gaudy, and I’ve never seen a house it would fit in. But to see it is to want it. You imagine that wherever it is, it’s quite a different world on the other side.


Invitation

A story lies behind this door.
Perhaps one yet to write.
Whatever happens in that tale,
I’m sure takes place at night.

Absinthe must be the drink of choice,
and no doubt candlelight
plays on masks and fancy dress
in that party, out of sight.

Walls may not talk, but doors sure do,
and this one has no shame,
suggesting pleasure with the curves
of its twisted, silver frame.

 threshold_

Fiction

When the first line of this poem came to me, I thought it would be a great title for a short story. (Maybe it will be?). By the way, isn’t there a Harry’s Bar in every city in the world?

Fiction

He was a fiction character.
I knew him long before
I met him down at Harry’s
(third table, by the door).

I knew that he’d wear glasses,
have an earring, and be tall,
and as I approached the table
he wouldn’t speak at all.

But the eyes behind his glasses
would unnerve me, and I’d fall
head over heels.

We’d share a coffee,
a few kisses, promise to call…

The good thing about fiction is,
it hardly hurts at all.