December 29, 2007 by Deightine.

I am the Barker,
Lesser staged, all enraged;
A mustachioed siren calling,
hands out I beckon, harder as they reckon.

Leading back the timid,
my cane parts the curtain, a nickel from each certain;
The innocent veil their eyes but peak around,
pupils tag your every curve, blushing attentions swerve.

You stand with conscience tightly veiled,
eyes distant and cheeks redding, clothing shedding;
Steely eyed you regard the crowd,
jaws slacking eyes glazed, each blameless, phased.

But right as the last layer is exposed,
your fingertips quivering, the audience shivering;
I tap my cane and tell a quick tale,
even if it’s lies I weave, anything to make them leave.

With a tap and a point I direct them away,
they remember propriety and guilt, climbing pillars they’ve built;
As I pass you I’ll smile behind their backs,
and point them to the next tent’s sign, grinning because you’re mine.

—-

Just had the odd urge to write a poem about a barker and his stripper wife, a la a 1890s medicine show and circus’ sideshow.

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December 6, 2007 by Deightine.

An Old Muse

Gauzy see-through black flows sandy under nimble finger,
but not to catch and drag at fox-soft fur freshly shaven,
and feline grace beyond human reason prepares for this show.
They gather in the wake and starved nonsensical, they linger,
yet week after week do not whisper to those pale ears, voices craven,
they arrive skeptical but after the first dance, they know.

Back pressed to brass prayers while fingers climb them, that supple wrist,
marking subtle hymns down button chains while hips sway side to side,
pale skin blushes peach sunset from friction and spent sweat.
The men and women of the masses sit lips pressed and unkissed,
hoping to catch a sweet promise as thighs part from collide,
and wait awe stricken with need; their laps dry and minds wet.

—-

A New Muse

That cherubic tone of flesh and tenderness hides any worry,
while she smiles those bow shaped lips with no sense of hurry.
A caring visage of angelic warmth holding up against the storms,
while inside the darker choir sing-song laments against the norms.
The child of past wrongs and forced beliefs carrying new faith,
…while haunted by memory and imagination; demon, ghost, wraith.

But what makes the mind’s loin stir and quake for all it can take,
it is not the shallow hallucination that first glancing eyes rake.
The heat and tense, the taste and sense, the smoking souls incense,
comes from the depth of those eyes gazing back, emotions intense.
That sweet smile, coy glance, subtle grin; brings shiver shakes like rain,
hidden veiled spoken attractions, deviating that wonderful chain.

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