Poetry Friday: The Word is GOLD

When I'm much older
Elderly and infirmed, perhaps
and medical science has reached a point where one can see inside the machinations of one's brain,
I will temporarily donate my head to science,
to watch them study my gray matter
and determine, on a scale of 1 to 10, how whacked out I am, or was.

The Poetry Friday Word for today is GOLD. Feel free to use the word in your blog post today, however it unwraps your candy-coated goodness...poem, photo, audio blog of you shopping for that 'last' present, receipt for gold-plated teeth.

My own contribution? Well.

I had every intention of doing something "festive!", like a holiday decoration.
I had every intention of doing something "sentimental", like a family dinner.
I had every intention of doing something "wacky", like my Uncle Doug with the false teeth he displaces in his head, at every gdamn family reunion.

Instead, what came out my fingertips this early morning was unexpected.
And much sexier.
In my head at least.

Somehow the ideas got all squished and squashed up inside my brain cells, melding a past theatre experience with K straightening my scarf in the warehouse yesterday, to my spouse wearing a tea towel, to that look guys get when they're relaxed and horny, to the photo yesterday of Sean Connery in "Goldfinger".

I would love to get body-painted on stage.

I just came to that exhibitionist realization. How crazy am I.

Have a good weekend, y'all!


The Actor’s Gild

She used the gold paint.
And a wide camel-hair brush.

Funny how getting naked, or even half-naked, in front of a group of people,
onstage
backstage
makes you immune to random eyes staring at your breasts.
And your ass.
And the hands of the girl slowly stroking your skin with body paint.

We were all drunk, of course.
That’s the excuse we’d use later.
Not that we needed one.
Ever.

Dress rehearsal sucked, luckily.
Opening night rocked our knickers off.
The director sprung for good champagne and, rumour had it, expensive scotch,
although I couldn't find it.

We sprawled on the set, half-
Half-naked, costumes removed to show
Panties
Whale-bone corsets molding
Impossible cleavage
The guys mostly
Mostly shirtless, and
Mostly
Mostly
drunken
Contented tigers.

My necklace was askew.

She wanted to fix me.
She pulled my long hair off my face
And reached her hands around my neck,
Her fingers brushing so gently
I got cooter-flutters.
She removed the jewels,
Shook the tendrils,
And re-wrapped me.

“You have beautiful skin,”
she said.
“Let me paint you.”

Retrieving her makeup kit, she pulled out
The paint
The brush
And pulled me to the top step of the living room set,
A live mannequin on display.

Steve the lighting effects guy
Dimmed the stage
And lit one spot
Illuminating she and me

She with the paintbrush-
Me with lazy fingers of champagne.

She dipped the brush into the pot,
And stroked the bristles down my arm,
A trail of gold behind them.
I couldn’t tell
What was kissing me
My eyes closed
I couldn’t see
if anyone was watching
My ears heard
Jon gasp,
And mixed rushes of breathing,
And someone moved a chair
Closer

I stood in fake moonlight
Exposed and
Gilded
Performing
A statue
Trying to decide
If the corset should come off next
Or perhaps the stockings
And would this be the party
We’d all talk about
After the show closed.