la tristesse durera toujour


i was in a dirt hole or clasped on
a napping road-trip road.
palpitating thru the lines or bones
on the ground, or underneath.

i found her heart in a rat pile
flapping like loose mother-skin
grieving with the last milk oval
on the whelps tongue.

are above me, like you
in a circlet of whore-stars,
maniacal with
teeth for deep space.
a belligerent isolation embraces
me and i am born in bright black.

i stare into the sun and when i
shut my eyes, it winks back
and it will never leave.

my love was a thousand shells
in salt on earth. i was the killing jar.

the beat of sunflower wings
in cement initials.


samantha lucero 2018 ©

41 thoughts on “la tristesse durera toujour

  1. Oh, rather tortured, dark and cerebrally challenging. I will skip around the hole in the ground and look in (pretending not to). 😌🌸

      1. How utterly greedy of you! Your words are emancipated now and rest welcome in your reader’s imagination. 💕

      2. I look forward to it. It’s very encouraging. I hardly find time and so I’m glad that when I do, it seems at least what comes get thru.

  2. Clearly you were Van Gogh’s ghost writer. There’s a quote by him that makes me think he was your ghost writer, too.

    “If I am worth anything later, I
    am worth something now.
    For wheat is wheat, even if
    people think it is a grass in
    the beginning.”

    And if I may be so bold, one of me,

    “ I am always doing what I
    cannot do yet, in order to
    learn how to do it.”

    . . .

    “i stare into the sun and when i
    shut my eyes, it winks back
    and it will never leave.”

    Same thing happens every time I read your words.

    1. Damn. I’ll have to keep that quote in mind. Also, I imagine his imagery a bit like my eyes get in a migraine, maybe even auras. So that’s a piece of trivia for that particular line. Thanks friend! 🖤

  3. Is this the one that won lots of things? My loose mother skin is rasping along the putrefying shell spirals of my cut dead ear, Fibonacci-style.


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