Thread: June Challenge - "Facades"

The theme for the June challenge, suggested by Chester's Daughter, is "Facades".

Remember that you may approach the subject in whatever way you wish, though of course site rules apply. If you are unsure of the challenge rules please read the 'stickies' at the top of the board, it is disheartening to disqualify people for things like a trivial edit, but the rules will be applied.

This challenge will close on the 26th June 2012.

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Laconically Linguistic

Laconically linguistic flow –
___stabbing verbs
from the hand of the mystic
- mask the absurd
___breaks
___of reason
that establish his world.

Simple and clear,
his words appear a feast
for the eye and a melody
___to the ear -
yet only the few see
the secrets unfurled.

___Talk
to the stranger
beside you on the tube –
to the trees; to the wall
which bears the images
that bring you
___to your knees -
a fool wears the crown
___while you spurn
___the wisdom thrown.

As night approaches,
when men’s prayers are heard
___no more,
for they failed to read the signs
though they were pinned
___to every door -
folk only scanned the surface
and the mystery stayed
___unknown.

The prophets wrote
their vision on the walls
___and in the malls;
the poets and the artists carried
wisdom’s plaintive calls,
while none really believed
that they would reap
what they had sown -
___blindness
___in the dark crowd
where each phantom stands

___alone.

Jacob chuckled like an undertaker enjoying a secret joke,
a wry insight into an otherwise tragic circumstance
and who, being unable or unwilling to fully cloister away
such privileged and weighty information
when among the unenlightened persons there present,
chuckles to himself, and smiles in amusement, at them.

Lingering Possession

Double-entendres
cover tooth and nail
under leather gloves
and velvet veils.

Paranoia raw and gnawing;
the wearing constant enmity,
for what the choice of guise reveals
of friends and costumed enemies.

A second glance homed in
on tunnel vision stares;

motives go unspoken
but omens fill the airs.

Versace Dreams


Versace dreams and soft ice cream
on a Venice sidewalk;
in the scheme of things seem
to draw my mind down blind alleys.

Drunk sleeps in a doorway,
seen through rose pink lace
across my face, to colour the world
as I want to see it.

Track marks on the arm of a girl
with no charm are not my concern;
I’ve nothing to learn from her plight.

Better the whirl of the socialite world
and Versace veils - to make me believe
that I’m better than those
on the streets.

California dreamers can turn away
from the screams of despair,
pretend not to hear while they chase
their ambition to the next bar room -
where all the stars are waiters.

The bit players
of a never cancelled drama
learn to live their lies
delivering lines
to reflections that reveal
what they pretend to see;
painstakingly painted faces
screaming happy.

With half smile and slight nod,
they call upon cued prompts
and proudly pipe up
"Good Morning" to passersby.
Most deserve accolades
for their performance.
Those fencing with foreclosure,
or dueling with depression,
gaily chat with hostages
held by habits;
cutters, shooters. bingers and neat freaks,
all equally bound and gagged
by their obsessions,

yet they never break character.

I watch the exchange
as bile takes the elevator
to my esophagus
then shimmies up into my mouth
in a dance of disgust
to sour my tongue
and belabor a barricade
of firmly cemented lips.

An elephantine effort
in pelican pantomime
sends it barreling back down
to the empty basement.
Who am I to deny
the show must go on?

With props of cardboard tent,
raggedy wardrobe, a baggie of bliss,
and a coffee can
to catch cast off quarters,
my blackened stumps
broadly beam a grin
not easily dismissed or forgotten.
My stroke stricken mind
replies in kind
slurring back the only line
I can still recall
from my heyday on the A List,
when on occasion
dawn
was actually delectable.

Word on the street is
I'm a shoe-in for best actress
at next year's Oscars
providing my SAG card
isn't revoked
by the Executive Director.

You'd be surprised
at what a lovely mantle
a cracked curb makes.

As sunset snaps off the spotlight,
an unspoken "cut"
sends showfolk scurrying
to scour caked makeup.
No sense sullying the shams
during the nightly toss and turn
battling an array of disarrays.

Even with curtain closed
and house lights dimmed,
still, they can't break character,

nor could I,
which is why
I opted for the freedom
afforded
by my steadfast stand-in


Mr. Heroin.

Dodging Summer Days



I walk easy alongside the road, clean
as a painted shoreline, leash
wrapped twice around my wrist, my bare feet

dusted black by the asphalt and wiped clean
by the dewy rug of grass. Tonight
life is easy. Somebody else cut the lawn

in the afternoon. Clippings, still breathing, stick
to the skin between my toes. It is cool,
like sitting beneath a fan after a shower.

The saw-legged bugs chirp like clucking mugs
in a café. There are no birds around
to distract the dogs at night and it is too dark to see the bats.

The script is written, memorized
The show then categorized
The actors speak and mesmerize
The bit players who improvise
There is no audience to see
The Play of Life, excepting He
Who watches from above lest we
Flub our lines and then we see
That each of us puts on a mask
And wears it to the very last
Lest we bare the world our soul
And reveal our one true goal

The Dirt

The cold no longer touched her
even when he did,
she'd moved beyond his ego
straight into her Id.
Buried under layers
of his dead, damp earth,
suffocating darkness lay
in place of home and hearth.

He called it love; she
learned how to parrot words,
best not to stir the monster
but emulate the bird—
Polly wants a cracker
just not across her face,
though these were always followed
by his most sincere embrace.

The public had proclaimed, she was
his perfect paramour,
with paparazzi swooning
over every dress she wore.
They dug into her life,
but completely missed the dirt.
Preferred to blather on about
the labels on her skirts.

Behind the iron curtain
of her frozen, placid face,
she used to keep a candle lit
when she’d believed in grace.
The flame soon surrendered
to the airless atmosphere
and left behind a waxen form—
a doll of adipocere.

I was once the head, the king.
The words I said, everything
was law and none dare fight it.

I was the dealer and rolled the dice,
dictated the fates, the fall and rise
of my kingdom's enemies
and brought them down to their knees.

Now I'm but a lost pauper
due to an ouster mastered by those
whose greed was grossly overflowing.
Their hearts were loudly clamoring
for my head to be served on a golden platter.

But how can this repudiation be?
What have I done to deserve
this great insult given to me?
I have done my best to quench
all their thirsts and requests,
yet their hunger remained unsatisfied.

I refuse to heed their craven calls.
I shall never sell my soul to those
whose eyes can only see gold,
whose hands can only hold
pieces of silver.

And now they feast, their hearts delight
to have my suffering on their sights.
This is the price I have to pay
to keep me from becoming
a puppet on their string.

"Living statues, my arse.
That alabaster bastard moved.
I saw it. A finger twitched."


“Shush, they’ll hear you.
Just give them a pound and then let’s go.”

“But Mummy, what if they have to pee?
Do they pee right there
or do they say Kings X,
then go find a loo?
And why do they wear bed linens, Mum,
and do those bikes right there belong to them?
If they’re not careful their hems
will get caught up in the chain
when they ride home.
Are their legs painted white, too?
And do they paint, You Know Where?
Do they, Mum? Could that be right?
Hey Da, what does alabastard mean?
I remember when you said it.”

“Now careful, dear. Watch your mouth.
Let's just go home."

“Well son,
why don't you dash up there and give one
a hearty pinch. Let’s find out together.”

But Da, should I? That one's looking mean!”

This challenge is now closed.