Le Theatre Du Grotesque

Chimera Poetry


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…

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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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