
Lemon eyes
squeezed
shut
hard…’til
tarts sting them
mixing
2 parts
sugared speech,
1 part dry ice,
and
dashes
— —
4 refresh.
©Karen Robiscoe

A faerie,
she
dressed in spider silk
and flew by winged heel
to the Moth Ball
danced for the gloam,
the love of it,
and last Light,
Achilles be damned,
she
–cavorted.
Carried a fair fan
6 to a hand
–and some fan fare
heralded this soft-shoe,
through mudroom,
mushroom,
and first bloom,
she
wore tiny pulsars
only faeries
could see
traced Telling patterns
from beyond the
Dark Rift
on coal-Dusted terrace
rye on why
(faeries ought never drink philosophy)
Torches burned her B side
See-side
and Decide
…a Sideways faerie,
she
practiced Diamond Vision.
©Karen Robiscoe

There’s degrees of
songs & singers–
so much, I’ll make a list,
when we’re through
let’s both review
& see what I have missed.
There are those that need
~enhancement~
* auto-tune *
& helping hands,
there are those that
bleed song writers
back-up singers
& their band,
there are those that
feed on scandal
freaky clothes
to scream I’m glam,
& those with
stupid handles
geeky pose
& marriage plans
there are those who
make good money
putting Phony
next to Gram
and those that
belt out covers
of another
band with fans…
But sometimes
there are singers
–be it fella, be it dam–
who sing it acapella
And to them
I give this hand.
Since like a writer
~writing~
acapella is pure voice
no falderal
to song at all
but words!
(My tune of choice)
©Karen Robiscoe
Related: Master of Nothing
Why do you stay away
Paris–
are not my wounds
–deep enough
my love
–pure enough
my devotion
–plain enough?
Long are my years in exile
heavy my heart from waiting
pleasant the poison from
golden bracelet
promising silent succor,
Agamemnon plotted then
but who plots now?
empty horses…
for she is beautiful, Paris,
she is.
but I would make you
~immortal~
~K Robiscoe~
the Prince of Tide–
he, stood on a soapbox,
slinging Mud
(with the one hand)
& washing wHite
where color should be…

a deter Gent’
–he, made me
inclined to
dry-clean…
©Karen Robiscoe
like a tattoo
this scrawl on a Wall
between you and me is regrettable…

the Wall I can see, anyway.
(the curse of tramp stamps)
proving ineffectual communication–
–which chance effect
choked my motormouth
* face to face *
hemmed in as I am,
by my own exhaust…
©Karen Robiscoe