Roses Archives - Adam Taylor Poetry

Tintinara

My taxi is here,
said Tintinara,

as she wiped her mascara
and boxed her pink tiara
and downed her caviar. A
girl’s gotta know
when a girl’s gotta go.
See you next year.

No gowns.
No crowns.
Only thorns.
The theatre shivers

in the naked dawn

while deep in their lair,
the actors prepare
for the premiere.
Each budding performer
in their own chair
attended by
a colourologist
and a perfumer.

The early bloomers
attend the stage
for the opening call
as the first few punters
enter the stalls.

The bell dings.
The choir begins.
The lights fire.
The tech loads.

May is here.
The bling explodes.