Le Theatre Du Grotesque



With our eyes safely lidded and every neck bent 
a collective sigh drizzles along the crowds edge as you,
 the Queen of Le Theatre Du Grotesque,
surging in on an up swell of terrorsweat and adoration
your followers in a cluster of sycophantic clucking 
scurry behind
Flaunt, swirl your cloak and smooth your gloves
to allow those grandiose gesticulations
You use your lorgnette in the wide arm blessings like a conductor and his baton
tied with ribbon and bits of mirror
a crazy house reflection of the gilt and glimmer and the spiderwebs decked in their finest silk
The murmur rises as you part the red velvet curtains hanging dustily in all their malicious opulence
and regally take your place in the box 
a window shop for the eyes slyly tracking movements
storing greedy grasping details with a flick of a paintbrushed eyebrow 
An incense of burning books and footlights 
heating the cedar planks 
drift and hang like Spanish moss among the beams and cords,
a tangle of electric flowers
One may imagine a misshapen figure skimming down hand over gnarled hand
a half masked face sneering
but imagining is not taken for granted here
not dismissed with bedtime soothings
for the Theatre has its own programs 
and a thousand soft bodies like opened oysters
for its plundering
Let the lights dim…..
and the music swell from Below
as the cast march forward in their extravagant
costuming with lace and leather and wings and horns
 and stitched on smiles
metal meeting flesh in violent metamorphosis
a blend of tender skin and beaten copper scales to flash and dazzle the crowd
who never notice
the faintest whiff of laboratory 
underlying the pungent pomade of roses and cloves slicked on 
before the disciples heeded the curtain calling 
And you lean forward in the box above 
betraying your horrific appreciation
as you count the rising gasps as sweet as coins 
A satisfied curve of your flagrant lip
as Pity stuffed clumsily with sawdust arrives on stage as
mere decoration
for this grotesque troupe had no one left
 qualified to play that role…..
*artwork by Lente Scura*



About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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4 Responses to Le Theatre Du Grotesque

  1. This is absolutely stunning! Mesmerizing, captivating, bewitching, enchanting.. superlative, superlative, superlative!!!

  2. Pingback: Le Theatre Du Grotesque | Tinseltown Times

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