Old Hollywood

She was a silent voyeur

Ghosting the fireboard

A sensual remembrance

Of candlelit conversations

Chased with Dom Perignon

Of a love confined to satin sheets

And the raging libidinous

Flickers of amber flames

She wore her heart snugly, discretely

Pressed between her shapely thighs


She loved many men in her youth

Loved them with her stroking hands

With her voluptuous pout

With her yielding brown eyes

But never enough to relinquish her freedom


Her life would not be enclosed

In an aureole of gold

Those gilded cages

Embellished with sentimental lies

Would not impose boundaries on her dreams

An actress, even a silent one

Belonged to the public

Belonged to the glamor and depredation

Of Hollywood nights

Nights saturated in perfume and gasoline

Not to the Valium miasma, that was suburbia


Her picture sat on the mantel

In the homes of old lovers

Alone and misplaced, gathering sepia with age

Just as she had died surrounded

In the hollow comfort of her former fame

Poised inches above a ravenous fire

Only an indelible impression of the heart

Carved into the arthritic memories of old men


She who’d been a phenomena in monochrome

Faded with color and spoken word

Dined on cherries and chemical cocktails

Died dramatically hanging from the rafters

Her silk stockings tightened around her neck

The room lit with heart-shaped candles

One last call for abandoned romance


(I am really uncertain how this woman led me to this story lol)



I carried these sallow infants around

These unfinished poems

Swaddled in heavy blankets

To hide their deformity

Pale lips wet with frothing spleen

They shrieked, the same nonsensical lines

Dug their little talons into my heart

Hurting for a mother’s love


Atrophied in my reticent embrace

They suckled feverishly

At the wilting bosom of my waning muse

The once succulent

Drops of inspiration

Ashes mixed sparingly

With a  few droplets of fat


Their bodies thickened grotesquely

With each attempted feeding

They developed at a disproportionate rate

As if inflicted with Elephantiasis

More hideous than before, I had no choice

I hacked away at their tumorous masses

Destroyed in the process their fragile structures

Ligaments in shreds, tendons in tatters, bones pulverized

Unable to support their own weight

They wasted away to nothing more

Than a haunting impression

A simpering bag of flesh


Occasionally I attempted to pass off

These wretched infantile words

As fully-developed prose

Timidly I unbound them

Dressed them up with a clever title

Perhaps I am a vain heartless mother

Perhaps I have failed to recognize

This rare beauty, maybe these words

Are not deformed at all

Maybe they’ve evolved beyond the need for legs

Or a heart or soft pink fingers

That pluck gingerly the rib-bound

Mandolin strings of a human heart

Perhaps they are fine as they are

Their glutinous tongues

Hanging from anemic mouths

Curdled breath, struggled

Lepidote skin, chalky white

Nose a single slivered opening

Like a coin slot

It’s obvious they are special

Simmering in their vinegary air

Tiny pickled basilisks

Why I bet people would pay to see them!

(Sadly the public won’t suffer such macabre deviance)


I tried to nurse them into a proper poem

Into something respectable, passable

Its not my fault their so finicky

Its not my fault they shy away

From my dry sagging breasts

I’ve tried formula, every brand

I could get my covetous hands on

Plath, Rimbaud, Baudelaire

Even a little Poe

Snubbed all of them

If they ever managed a few drops

They spit them up right away

A sick greenish yellow blight

Pressed between the pages of idols


I know the merciful thing to do

Would be too snuff them out

But I’ve grown queerly attached to them

Their fetid little cries ease the ache

Of emptiness, how I hate the blank page

The barren white of a loveless moon


I keep them hidden in the cellar

Sealed away in little bell jars

Their lifeless parts

Swimming in a fishy inkor

Inside their beveled glass womb

I watch them sour with shame

If only I could stitch them together

But they won’t fit together properly

Every one of them has a different father

So for now they stew in darkness

My unfinished poems


(This poem was inspired by Sylvia Plath’s poem “Stillborn”. I loved the concept so much I wanted to work with it. I can’t do justice to her obviously but she’s the reason I started writing. I know its horrifically long but I had so much fun.  http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/sylvia-plath/stillborn/)

Day 13 Summer Crafts

I am still one day off but for the life of me I am not sure what topic I missed unless I combined two. I am terrible at crafts especially anything that requires a needle. I can’t even sew a button on a shirt. Yes I am just that incompetent. But there are a couple of things I do poorly that I actually enjoy lol

While I should not be allowed near glue or scissors I love collages. I used to make them as visual poetry. I did not make this one!

My daughter loves making jewelry. I used to make hippie beads in high school but my mom would sell them off without giving me a cut of the profits! Cold *tsk tsk*

Having a 3 year old it stands to reason that I color a lot and scribble things for her. I actually have a bear I drew that I am quite proud of other than that we’re about on the same level lol This is from google I need to get my scanner hooked up so I can show you some actual pictures she’s made.

I paint badly this is one of mine. I only do abstract because well I can’t do anything else lol But also I find its a great way to release pent up emotions when you lack the words.

Another darker one I painted. I also paint people’s auras