Femme Fatale II

Part I
 
Part II 
It’s too late,
her allure has lured you in
your reflection,
now forever fixed in her eyes;
a prisonly prism
that will not look away,
and while she sways
Every touch, evidence,
fingerprints
she will lift with her powder brush
Those bombshell bosoms
close enough, you hear the ticking
and you know it is not her black heart
When your hand reaches the top
of that satin slit
and her garter clicks,
you will know
“This is it”.
Published in: on May 26, 2012 at 11:34 pm  Comments (1)  
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Bad Investments

Your liabilities outweigh your assets
But I still invested
In us.
Your name in red parenthesis,
Inked with blood from my overdrawn heart
Our deficit, a grim report
Charts dipping into great depressions
Negativity on every telling page
Bouncing reality checks 
You spend everything on nothing to show
forgotten unclaimed bonds
now rendered unpayable
made some risky trades that did not pay off
and perhaps diversified a little too much
on shady start-ups
and now your crippling debt to love
has you pawning prized possessions
maybe you should have put everything in mutual funds
I hear they’re safe
and stashed away some love for those rainy days
and invested in real estate
(if you keep it for a long, long time, it appreciates)
but it’s too late now
and very sad your heart went bankrupt
 
Published in: on April 26, 2012 at 1:02 am  Leave a Comment  
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The Search

There’s a needle in the haystack
And a man in the moon
I’m forever finding
Pain in pricks,
from grabbing at straw
Distant smiles in cold blue stones
I cannot reach

Published in: on April 26, 2012 at 12:48 am  Leave a Comment  
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Femme Fatale

Her beauty is imminent danger:
Ringlets tailspin from her head
dive bomb and crash into her shoulders
Dagger sharp nails soaked in victim red
Her tsunami sway hips’ destructive tides
Quicksand lips
Lead pipe legs that blind with their glisten
Piercing eyes that break skin
drawing blood from your heart
to the surface by tiny pinpricks
Lampshade fringe eyelashes
luring the moths
Cannonball breasts ready to ignite
And the hourglass figure that warned you
Your time is almost up!

Published in: on April 24, 2012 at 11:40 pm  Comments (3)  
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Half Handed Hope

Half handed hope
leaves room
to grope fantasies
palm wide,
for reality
to collide in loose grasps
pawing warm laps,
to dog ear chapters of chaps
summoned from the past.
.
Half handed grace
a space for
honest evaluation
given to temptation
Mistakes in the making
Roads untaken
Uncharted stumbles
brought by
Empty hands who’ve caught on
To devour and shake bare
The covered skin left there
.
Half handed love
Ventricles spurting through
Gloves, fingerprints at crimes
And apprehensive minds
Stealing a glance taking a
chance with sordid fates
Mismatched mates’ scarlet spectrums,
Electrons, fusing with dopamine fools
bartering with ropes and pulleys  pulled
fully engaged in nothing much
but transitory transactions
with traction and such
 
Half Handed faith
surrender displaced,
proof displayed in vile
cages of contagious spite, delight
in firm beliefs
yet still bereaved
clapped away in shoddy locks
but perps will
walk free and believe
in themselves but ask for help
nevermind, I’m doing well
enough to tell tales of 
broken wings and my dreams
crushed by the escaping  
 
Published in: on April 20, 2012 at 10:34 pm  Leave a Comment  
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The illusionist

You said the magic was gone.
I was wrong
To sit wide-eyed and entertained, awed
For so long
.
No mystical charm exists.
It’s only tricks,
Illusions I insisted on believing
Bereaving supernatural fancies
So exquisitely performed
Watching you pull helpless animals from hats
And this fool dared clap?!
.
Snot soaked hankies turned to carnations,
levitation,
pick a card any card but hearts.
And I knew when you,
Pulling silver dollars from my ear,
How clear, my dear, it was a fraud
but I was wrong
.
The final act:
Saw the woman in half
Published in: on March 14, 2012 at 12:45 am  Leave a Comment  
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Punishment

There is only punishing when one allows it
There is cruelty, yes, and discipline
But thoughts cannot be controlled.
It is a choice to suffer;
An invitation to pain and perhaps contrition
That must be accepted.
Destruction and assault are tangible, sensed
Though the power is lost
When cheeks are turned.
Licks and shocks may not coerce
Confessions sought
Enemies kept close yield disclosure
Caring begets hope for real change

Punishment is only for the punisher.

Published in: on March 8, 2012 at 12:25 am  Leave a Comment  

House of Cards

Sweet dreams
to all the kings
and queens
in my house of cards.
.
Sounds of shuffling dulled,
Jokers fooled into discard piles,
Fanned hands face down,
Spades scooping for ground,
Wagers surrendered in whole.
.
Draw pile pillows 
stocked with diamonds
I’m in
ceilings of hearts
tempting a tumble.
 
The hand dealt:
bent aces and one-eyed jacks,
cracks too wide to balance
Kingdoms long abandoned
and gambled
for greener felt
poker table pastures,
Masters,
asking for hits just past 21.
.
3 of a kind,
We’ll find
a full deck
Worth playing with;
Fair games,
glossy new coats.
empty sleeves
and no bluffing.
Published in: on March 5, 2012 at 12:14 am  Leave a Comment  
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What makes people tick?

We’re all unique in pulse, pattern
syncopated ticks
in cacophony,
discord,
wild metronomes
pushing blood around
to the sound
of thumps in the night
sighs
to slow the rhythm
we can’t manage,
clocks to give us unreachable regularity
at such a steady pace
that impairs our confident and independent stride.
   
Tame tempos that suit your temperament:
largo, presto, adagio, allegro.
You’ll grow in cadence,
with licks of ocean tides,
join the crickets,
find the choir bellowing
tones in your bpm,
dance with winds
that make barn doors rattle and clap,
laugh until you’re out of sync,
ride the brink of gasps
fluttering and trembling
your throbbing core.
 
That cardiac pause looms,
eternities of pendulums
hanging still like retired drumsticks,
eminent windless dark…
Time does not stop at death.
It endures without a beat
to move with,
a paralysis of pulses,
no sound
to measure
breaths drawn.
 
So at dawn, arise!
March to your drum,
inflect and step 
into your OWN time.
 
 
 
 
 
Published in: on February 29, 2012 at 12:27 am  Comments (2)  
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Vessel

You cannot fuck me dry
 
You may be void of feeling
and feeling me may be
the only time you feel
 
There is no end to my well,
well, you will still
be empty
 
I am full of the juice you want,
but also the blood
that makes my heart pump
 
Teeming with intensity
in emotion, rejected,
erected, you bury apathy
into me as if it is medicine
 
I know you better than
yourself.
Your health
is a fable
and I am racing
to die first
since you thirst
to be alone
on your throne,
the king of oblivion
who can polish
his own damn sceptre
with dry fucking hands.
Published in: on February 7, 2012 at 9:47 am  Leave a Comment  
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Venn there done that

Our night sailing ships collided
The bachelor was brided
Two rings exchanged
Two circles overlapping
.
Venn said that sliver shared is slim
If you really love him
Cross over like an eclipse
Into the space
You do not understand
.
And so I am leaving the space I represent
I cannot lie, I do resent
His abesence in my circle left
A cold, black, empty void
.
And maybe someday soon he’ll see
The wonders that were part of me
and explore that abandoned ghost town territory
To resurrect his soul crushed wife
 
Published in: on February 6, 2012 at 12:50 am  Leave a Comment  
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Inadmittance

She won’t admit it, but
she wants to be a cause worth pursuing;
To make a man
sprint
trapezius flaring,
jugular bulging,
hands
clenched and pumping
with determination;
tackled to the ground
and ravaged like a battlefield.
.
She won’t admit it,
but she wants to be a territory worth fighting for,
even if she fights back,
she is begging
to be won;
to have a soldier
of desire
conquer her,
to be completely
surrounded
by his might,
to have him launch an attack
so fierce
it will end in
bloody surrender.
.
She won’t admit it,
She will be coy, will put up walls
She wants torn down,
Will wail for her troops
to save her,
But her lusting heart is a defector
Longing to be shackled
And bound, impounded
And pounded into
Succumbed weak yielding torture.
Published in: on February 5, 2012 at 2:00 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Featherweight

Once I was a spring chicken.
Through time you plucked
Each feather,
One by one
Loves me, loves me not.
 
I’ve been reduced
to a pile of down feathers;
strike me with your fist
over and over
beat me down;
it only makes me fluffier
 
And when you are through,
I will give your head
The comfort that breeds
Conscience steeped dreams, streams
of tar infused guilt
Rolled dry in my downy discipline.
 
And if you beg,
I will pluck you clean again.
Published in: on February 5, 2012 at 1:25 pm  Comments (2)  
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Verbal Suicide

My words,

not just falling on deaf ears,

but splattering them

like the concrete

under a suicide jumper

with a resounding thud.

I’ve casted them like leagues of lemmings

hurling towards the ocean

and have spewed the thoughts and drops

siphoned from the bottom of my heart.

Now I am only dry heaving and running the pump dry.

I can’t give enough, change enough, do enough, say enough

I’ve loved enough, served enough, understood enough, had enough

To make lonely men jealous you are mine

Yet I’m a swine, more boorish than boring

My 1st amendments hog-tied

Into telepathic snorts

And now we’re out of sorts

For this vowed eternity

Playing house in front of a live audience

That never laughs

 

 

Published in: on February 3, 2012 at 12:18 am  Leave a Comment  
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Mid-Life Carisis

Neglect can kill old love
(If you forget the routine maintenance, that engine will not turn over)
and infatuation’s brand new car feeling
can masquerade as a reliable vehicle for escape.
When it breaks, don’t fix it;
get a new one.
            
I sure wish you would restore this old vintage beauty
and take her for a spin around the block and down the lane into the sunset.
The memories will serve you with more sentiment and cockle warming affection
than the empty reflection while seated behind the wheel of a
freshly factory delivered import that is 90% plastic.

Drip drop drown

Oh, the rain pitter patters to the beat of my heart
I fear the pattern drumming as the drip drops start
the devils got me in a wet grip leaking love from my parts
this storm is welling up
   
I try to quell it with my quill but I’m splashing around
the gutters filling to the point I think I’m gonna drown
floating up I feel my feet leaving the ground
I get the giving up
    
Out of control in this hole, I impart
the grief of gallon buckets filling till they’re falling apart
a soul can only tread the floods
with makeshift boats on the blood
until it all dries up and you’re stuck in the mud
     
The clouds gather and I crouch like a battered wife
It’s still shallow sheets of sprinkles but it’s taking my life
this condensation’s condescension cuts like a knife
it just a bloody mess
 
My lips touch the ceiling siphoning air too thin 
I’d call for help, but I’ve already given in
If this downpour has a drain, it’s damned in sin
time to acquiesce 
   
Pull the plug let it swirl
sewage slurping circle to hell
The first beat,
when I first loved,
it was easy to tell
I was marked in red
and I already fell
That sinister sump pump
Thump thumping
Sucking the swell
Of leaking hearts and skies
Far too late to be wise
It’s been 40 days and nights of being baptized
Whirlpools and undertows have their prize
Published in: on January 20, 2012 at 11:40 pm  Leave a Comment  

Priming for the kill

“The New Year is more than a fresh start; instead it is rather a gradual conditioning of ends, preparing us for the eventuality of our own death.”

A lot had gone through my mind when I wrote the quote above.

Why January 1st? Other cultures have other dates to celebrate a new year.

The actual day seems so superfluous. How is one new day newer than the new day you were just given the day before?

The beginning of a new year is not about starting over. Anyone who has made a resolution can attest to the attempt at a fresh start that only results in abject failure and the return to usual habits. We need endings just as much as we need beginnings. This is why the ball DROPS. And because most fail to see opportunity in ending and beginning every morning when the sun rises and our feet hit the ground, it has to be done in a lavish and attention grabbing way such as wearing sparkly clothes, getting wasted with your friends and for the rednecks in my area, maybe blowing something up. We aren’t celebrating an uncertain future. We’re burying the past and sending it off with a bang. Auld Lang Syne is the funeral dirge for Father Time.

Government and business need to close their books. We need a sense of finality in small increments. Otherwise life seems like one big run on sentence. In fact, life’s way of getting women to quit talking so much is called a period. (I kid, but it is funny, you gotta admit). All these cycles in life… it’s just dead eggs down the toilet.

A new year is the obvious result of what must be done: Ending.

It doesn’t matter when. It just has to happen sometime.

Call me morbid, call me Debbie Downer, I don’t care. It’s the truth and we all know it.

We’re all gonna die and we need to rehearse one year at a time.

.

Published in: on January 17, 2012 at 10:13 pm  Comments (1)  
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Boarding up my windows

To prepare myself for winter

I am boarding up my windows,

filling my pantry,

compacting my bones

so moisture cannot

penetrate the joints.

The world will forget me more

but I am resolved to

avert the chill

with hunkered down loneliness,

oceans of tea,

fleece swathed solidarity.

Removed from frigidity

I am stone

alone

with my CB radio and scanner

leaning close

listening for chatter

flares and afghans at hand

in case the roof caves

If you find me in the thaw

Put a can opener to my lips

To hear the hiss and murmur

Of  secrets lonely women hold

In their ever sliding glacial hearts

There are storms no one can endure

And measures that are never enough

To save a home without love.

Published in: on January 14, 2012 at 10:53 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Abducted

The moon is for lovers and loners
to be washed in the blue-gray light
With shivering awe
of goosebumps, like craters,
Ruminations abound in
stone hearts’ illuminations
And in the darkness, the sky
is the visage of campfires
ablaze in a valley below
In red and blue twinkles
stars flicker and echo
light years of stories of folks
These distant lights impel
a soul hopeful
Consolation in constellations
flash glowing eons of wonders beheld
Inspiration and romance
creep softly into every
fold of feeling exposed
Published in: on January 12, 2012 at 12:50 am  Leave a Comment  
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Doppelgänger

I have been clear
I have been direct
I don’t insinuate
still you reject
all the ways I care
now I don’t dare
to talk.

I’m beside myself
but still alone
you’ve checked out
so has my clone
the lack of change
is still the same
but I’m not to blame

I’ve played the game
Of Stepford wives and bedroom whores
The thanks I get is a Cold War
Shoulder over ice in cocktail cups
I’ve had enough
I’ve given up.

But the lioness deep down roars
To fight for the man you once were
Regardless of fruitless scars
I’ve earned
I suppose I’m still willing to be burned

…for a cause worth fighting for.

Published in: on January 5, 2012 at 12:43 am  Comments (4)  
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