Trixie Bedlam's Poetry

Poems

• Wicked
• Infatuation
• God Bless America
• Galatea
• Little Thing
• Ms Mascara

Before the poems, if you would like to get in contact with Trixie, make an entry in her guest book below or email me at underneath_the_radar@angelfire.com and i'll put her in contact with you. Alright, enough from me, enjoy *S*

I am wicked for I would murder the saint in him
Not the man but the martyr.
I would break the light in his upswept eyes
And turn them to gaze upon me
I am not his fallen angel
But his temptation
Holding the apple in my hands
Teasing his sweet lips to take
A throat, a laugh, a flush
Infinite in my symphony of faces
So soft and well favoured to win
in the end
Every look is a glimpse of the same secret
Hush! Does he turn?
He can be my boy of stone.
I will warm him yet

Let's play a game of infatuation
And you be my inspiration
For a day

See, I'll paint your name
In this book
Because the capitals
Are my favorite

I asked you to stay
For your style
To pour on my ice cream

It's a proud day to have
My own human snow storm
In a paper box

Now that you're preserved
I found it over too soon
Your perfections blurred
So this picture is for you

God bless American pride
God bless Kentucky Fried
God bless the sitcom
God bless the atom bomb
God bless big hair
God bless welfare
God bless Ricki Lake
God bless raw steak
God bless cows and corn
God bless hardcore porn
God bless our Christian soldiers
God bless our bronzed shoulders
God bless baseball
God bless the mega mall
God bless the general election
God bless Big Bill's erection
God bless the fifty states
God bless the great Bill Gates
God bless the Red Injuns
God bless our big shotguns
God bless drinking beer
God bless shooting deer
God bless Oprah
God bless the Wonderbra
God bless the inner city
God bless the voice of sovereignity

And he was her muse
Isolde, her Helen, Galatea
Hands of stone. lips marble and arms reaching to God
St Lover, St Doctor, St Savior, St Other

And so she was
A master of puppetry
Raising the fluttering hands of her martyr
She told him to kneel before her
And the stone forgave his imperfections

At night she’d stray
From the entanglement of their flesh
To kiss the cold lips of her creation
Breathing life into the hollows of
The dusty eyes

With her art she sinned against her love
Flesh smoothing earth
Into a frozen ageless curve:
The milky skin kissed with winter light

In her passion of creation
She lost her sense of touch
As the boy in her bed
Struggled to break from the stone

How soft, how frail, how brief
Her muse was beaten.
She locked out the toy
Her thoughts like marble

And she sings as she shapes
Even when I die
I can never die
I leave my light in your eyes
So that I will never die

Little thing
I Rock you
And you pull my pony tail
And child I tell you
the Easter Bunny’s a lie
But you just cry at me
And little miss I tell you
Not to steal my makeup but you
Want to be a superstar like your sister
And Little Woman
Didn’t I tell you
Love should
Stay in books
but you say
that boy oh that boy
And I’ve always known you’d
Get bigger than me
But can’t you wait before
you leave tonight
I’ve so much more to say

We all want to be her
The world at her fingers
Luscious and jaded
She waits in the mailroom
Sends off her messages
To luckless youths with
Flowers in theirs curls and
Facepowder on their cleavage

They wait for their lusty Chevy boys
Remembering always to disregard
That their hippy-yuppie-soldier-junkies
Are no better than sticky poker cards

And oh to be the object of glory!
To be fought over and plundered.
For her the boys bloody their hands
And the flowery Revlon reverant cries
In delighted triumph