Welcome mat

Her serrated scissor smile bares auriferous caps and barely concealed rubies on artificially plump lips, as she pours pyrite pleasantries over late night, lamplit sidewalks and creeping, drive-by lechery

She’s made threats of paper dolls to ensnare desperate secret keepers into paying for secrets and keeping nothing else, and spit out flurries of giant snowflakes for those who can only afford to supplement her habits

Morpho menelaus perch above her unscrupulous, squinting eyes, as she chain smokes with clinquant claws buried beneath the peeling paint of baroque gaud; buried within the backhands and promised lands of they who force feed her

Dressing half her age, and getting half the pay, from men that project more hate than she can reflect; she’s stuck in her own honey trap, stirring in the bitterness through cyclic repetition of septic recompense

Sometimes when the night is still, she’ll lie in bed listening to the steady, stalwart footfalls in her chest of approaching Death, and she wonders when he’ll grace the welcome mat she’s placed before her door

Pretender jester


The princess prances down the halls as if
she owns them one and all, self-anointed
so, by perceiving princely bold advances
and apparent surreptitious glances

Pretender to the throne, she insists
that it’s her wits that got her there,
as she’s wont to wear her tight gown and
her polished, flaxen crown

She knows her best chances are when her
cover is judged, surreptitious glances
in the magic mirror, making sure her
natural make-up’s not smudged

She thinks her prince will let her rule,
but a prince wouldn’t marry the court
fool, she’ll just be one fool of two,
and a court has no need for two jesters

A couplet without a rhyme, a true prince
sees past her prime, to a distant time, he
can imagine a scene with his coming queen
who needn’t preen to be seen

O’er kingdom and land, they’ll rule hand
in hand, battle armor in matching sets, no
wants or regrets, and together laugh as the
jester dances and prances in their hall
art: Jester by Victoria Francés
daily prompt: Narcissism

Premature complications

They’re premature complications

And predictive stipulations

Of mentally strained gyrations

In infinite preparations

Overwrought and overthinking

Details sought and in them sinking

Not yet moments but in a blinking

Overwhelming disaster linking

Ever breathing, but forget to respire

So smell the roses, and duck the crossfire

Read the daily prompts and let them inspire

Then write this dumb poem so your brain can retire

Lipstick kiss

of a lipstick kiss

and requisite reflections

on waves of discontent;

not a lover’s quarrel, merely

coercion by happenstance

blown through the trees;

bearing water red-handed

at the shore’s summoning – a

souvenir of the dalliance – only

to drown beneath the weight

of a lipstick kiss