T.V. Queens and Other Harlequin Knights

Free Verse Poem, Ice Cream

Free Verse Poem


Hemingway lay down and Dylan swayed the grinding hordes
to forsake their caste blues for incense kindled at the
fountainhead of avarice while dandy clowns pimp preening
puppets to perform pernicious prattling fellatio on fake fish
queens for wilting grassy green paper.
Hollywood Midas wizards regurgitate fabricated paranoid connivances screened within immodest drug pavilions purchased by strutting
Jimmy whose action doubled pretenders blowing the sexually ruined
vestal thrift store wombs living in Taylor’s secreted havoc while
befouled child stars teethe on tautly painted lips encased in cold carat hearts dangling from delayed and forlorn teardrops.
Brandi wines for favor at Lisa’s Rodeo lounging lairs staffed by profanely wanton sniffing and scratching brats of a mirthless drunk Pan wearing diamond studded crosses of futility.
Atlanta drove Porsha’s own bleached smile to war against
her skin in wide mouth ghetto merchants from the dried
Euphrates’ clay practicing scripts of flatulent throaty
turds on fiery, ashen sorrows as fading misnamed Apollo
seeks another mark among the moneyed mates for his Cheshire
cat machinations bringing forth cockatrice eggs.
Bejeweled jerseys flip acid tongue air- kisses at cousins
and gangster lovers who assume their proper cells while suing
smart suits for sanctioned signings in Bergen County prisons
for failing Mother Teresa’s execrated predilections dressing the heart and groping for fame as the blind stumble over their idols.
Shady Floridians pink palmed Libertines manipulate coveted
trifles for televised fame and wrapped in slimy mined diamond
chokers of inherited holed hurts webbed in tinseled garments.
A constellated generation of Esau tribe hoary haired vixens
from the Empress State of feminized, photo-shopped paper bag
G. I. Joe’s parading deliciously poisoned apple pits on pedicured
feet among contrived blood titles of yore in the Arctic waters along Fire asylums gated manor houses in Babylon of the West and lorded over by pierced assed jejune thugs.
A dying toddler nation’s underbelly of wireless boxes trumpet dead
Jackson’s befuddled, bad is good idealization to a willing aborted reality, for the worship of the phallic in mincing tongue and Mad, dreamy-eye Yes Men who flaccidly conjure familiar spirits,lacking the boned back fortitude to voice a resolute No or that’s wrong.
Kudos to the yet closeted, pillared and wailing watchmen of truth, an agate window of delights but for the restless, muscular minded midget and for petty, prosperous and debauched giants, the Waster cometh with absolute cruelness.



Photograph by Ryan McGuire


Image Curve’s Manifesto 


Debra Bishop

Read, don't read, understand, don't understand Fill your mind, or still your mind, It's you who decides. As for me, I' m in the flow. I am a writer. What else is there to say?

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