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Jacqueline Czel


To Catch a Falling Star

They're going
   to regurgitate glitter
LIVE on TV today!
They're
going to vomit silver,
bronze, and gold
like bulimics
   before the war starved world,
 clinging to life
   a few
   jet setting hours
   away.

They'll rehash
   and totally trash
   old broads
   in tired red dresses,
right off the rack,
   spacing out,
   spacing out
at old needles tracks
a zero zombie
faux pas there
   amid the other
amphetamine induced
   fashion messes
clutching to
the shadows of youth
and strands
of ghost town
tumble weave,
    someone's
fake hair
    truth.

They're off to clutter
   curious minds
with vicious
assessments
of Liberace sequins
  clinging to
plastic boobs,
sitting beneath new noses
and above
   and the
   boniest of surgically
   made asses,
   while offering some
of their stale
insider crumbs
  to the plump
  lower
  classes.

They'll pick
at carcasses
and pull on sinew
   like hyenas
   and vultures
gorging on a feast
of stitched maggots,
   day old crassness
   and make
   Sambo jokes
about the
accordion monkeys,
propped up
   plastic doll pretty,
   Barbie pretty
   industry cyborgs,
   auto tuned junkies.

Applause.
Applause.
Applause.
 

Not Willing to Draw Straws

I looked at her,
she looked at me,
he looked at us,
we mute three,
all shrugging
shoulders and
shaking our heads
simultaneously
in front of
the big man,
who clearly
did not
understand;
conference
or not,
We, individually,
do not go there;
solidarity
solidarity
solidarity
he can select
another,
each of us is
staying right here,
because the
stories of the
not too
distant past,
still manage
to manacle
our educated
minds,
so we don't
easily venture
down there,
save for the
dutiful call
to a family
reunion
where there's
safety in numbers,
amid a
swimming
school of
clan colored
tee-Shirts,
led by an ancient
light by day,
Hoo Doo by night,
great, great aunt
with a hard
to understand
Mound Bayou
accent,
not so long
descended
from dangling
peaches,
shackled to
tales of horror
and imprinted
images of
burned and
lynched men,
we forever,
rope scarred
are never free
of that - so to
stay far North
of the edge of
that red river,
we, who do
not trust that
modern thought
ever arrived
safe there or
settled into
the silt next
to the lingering
spirit of
Emmett Till
all these years
later, push back.

Sympathy for A Some Kind of Sister

That
twitchy,
bitchy,
wispy,
lipsy,
extravagant
fancy,
nancy with
the extra
long nails
and
extended
locks,
and a four
O'clock
shadow
that often
ticks
and tocks
as she tsks
because
mother nature,
the Gods,
and birth
fairies
screwed up
royally
when they
missed
her private
parts,
cried
like any
woman
would
when her
Romeo
fooled
around
with
someone
else,
so I guess
I guess,
she's a
real member
of the
Pussy Cat
Club now.


The Season is Woman

She is scarlet,
shades of red,
the jezebel,
the strumpet,
the doxy
of
death
She is crimson
and burgundy
shades,
shades,
parting shades
of a turning hue
she is
a blazing orange
a blazing orange,
setting the
horizon
on fire too,
while dancing
upon a fading
firmament;
fallen far from
Spring grace,
turning her
wantoness
away from
tender lilacs
and summer blues,
no innocent
birds or bees
drink of her
Autumn dew;
She is scarlet,
she is brown,
she is yellow
kneeling down
she is ripe,
she is red
she is a gasp
of passion
lingering in a
leaf littered bed.



Urban Fairy Godmother

She whispered,
"Baby, I'm going
to grant you
tainted love
and twisted words,
a few junkies,
sad alcoholics,
social workers,
and lecherous love
in rodent
riddled walk-ups,
smack dab in
the middle of
urban decay
because I'm
fresh out of
uptown stability,
good husbands,
diamond rings
and money today,
on this your red
carpet premiere
~ birthday,
but I think at
the bottom of
my threadbare
glitter dust bag,
I've got some
backbone left
but this is it kid,
this is it,
I'm so sorry,
so sorry,
I ain't got
nothing else.
"




Picture
Picture

Jacqueline Czel's profile
Go to page 2 of Jacqueline Czel's poetry

Old Pirate

They are buried beneath the sand,
from what I can already see,
some hidden treasures and
a few unholy terrors, his salty
eyed subconscious keeps
somewhere under layers of silt,
inside a gilded Pandora's box,
I know from his wandering gaze,
that journey hardened stare,
it's better to not be the one,
to locate the X on his mental
map and turn the black skeleton
key inside his heavy lock.

Carrion

When
I'm gone,
they can
go ahead
and analyze
my life
pick it apart
like starved
vultures,
my choices,
my mind,
any off
beat strife,
or curious
origins
and sort
through
the putrefaction
to their
satisfaction
rotting words,
with flesh
ripped
from bones,
a postmortem
selective
for literary coyotes,
carnivores
of quality,
indulgent
intelligentsia,
puffed up
verbal
overlords,
the hyenas
might get full
the beetles
might get bored.


Birth of a Salesman

Out there, 
slick salesmen
say it loud to 
move the crowds,
market it again 
to reel 'em in,
put some sparkle 
on the gates
and food inside 
in the pen,
to keep them 
lining up
like pigs for 
slaughter,
talking of the 
new model -  
doodad
gizmo
gadget
are the kids again,
yours and mine,
your sons and 
my daughter,
who'll just die without it:
so they start 
selling young, 
using well 
honed techniques
in smiling 
endearments
or tearing 
supplications,
twisted 
psychology and
emotional 
declarations
of 'I'll hate you 
or love you more,'
along with 
hollow promises
to do more chores
and I have to say,
I'm nearly sold,
for quiet,
for quiet, 
some peace and quiet,
I'll may 
acquiescence 
to the changeling,
not quite my child
so bent on 
accomplishing 
her current goal
by smartly 
conjuring up
Willy Loman's soul.


Tidings

She treads
the wooden boards,
walk whittled well,
a smooth groove,
back and forth,
back and forth,
back and forth,
stepping towards
the edge
of heaven,
stepping towards
the familiar
gates of hell,
pacing,
pacing,
heart racing,
a pivoting
human pendulum
under a spell,
written on the
letter in her
tremulous hand.



​
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Go to page 2 of  Jacqueline's poetry

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