feelings unnamed

Posted on 2019-02-192019-02-19 Posted in Poetry, writingTagged poem, Poetry, writing13 Comments

we slumber

pathetically, on each others

haystack-shapes. on your borrowed grayling shades

cupped on resoled leather in an elbow crook,

shoelaces the hometown pillow.

we slumber

pathetically, inside unmanageable whispers

whose grief for us to segment stars

that arc in the blind-sky, that

which night mysteries immortally disunite–

is yet unkempt; is insolvable.

we slumber

pathetically, in oblong boxwoods, in

close brumation to each other,

& we opine, to that cockcrow vapor stealing us,

feelings unnamed.

samantha lucero 2019 ©

a chalk barrier in the shade of morning-Samantha Lucero & N. Ian McCarthy

Posted on 2018-08-222018-08-22 Posted in Poetry, writingTagged death, depression, horror, life, memories, poem, PoetryLeave a comment

He forgot to carve his name onto it—my slow-dead
womb builder. So he thatched this house with reeds
as presences and struck cymbals.

I gave its shambles to the fire, heaped its mar and its
lime, and the skeletal birdcage of it into the memory
of a tongueless August mouth.

Its chasm, a door—its screen porch, a belching Madonna.
Thin-torn frankincense fumes like god-blood from the split
of its rarefying wound, where the

whole of purgatory is a scent of goulash and of low mur-
murs; the sin of knowing, a Clorox-tinged swimming pool
rash and the sponge of wood rot.

the rattletrap where i watch
in flesh-colors quiet as the static
on play-slides gallop to a cutlass.

and decrepit with me in a malibu
it rusts in happy meals. bloats on
a warm backseat corpse savoring
in fragmented leather castled by
dehydrated fries like blades.

a baby tooth
unfastened…

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spaces tightly recede – samantha lucero

Posted on 2018-07-182018-07-19 Posted in Poetry, writingTagged death, poem, Poetry11 Comments

one of the last poems i might ever write.

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

i’m unhurt here; deeply wrapped inside this ill-starred cell.

chaste of catching time in its seeping hoards
that worm, or unpolluted by the
lightless nature of breath in my
anemic boat

i can oar inside this fervid pulse where
i’m electrically prolonged
inside that silky wave
the wistful
scene i’ll dream
and dream again

where life unearths
or perhaps, i wince and the spaces
tightly recede

and though i sink into an oily red
womb of her fastenings
i won’t dream of an appalling life
when i hiccup or pirouette my shaping
limbs to arrive at this
eternal return

of what

none outside this narrow pool
can dream or know, i’ll dream;

put me back into that blood
that last drowsy warmth
of my eyes yawned shut
before the first scream.

to sleep and sleep and finally sleep!

Samantha Lucero writes at sixredseeds.

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1.

Posted on 2018-03-252019-01-10 Posted in Poetry, writingTagged cities, dark, death, depression, dreams, ghosts, memories16 Comments

a city map is sewn in the scalp;
looped in the goat-milk, or spit out,
tongued in silky blades of stomped
down grass.

i’m crowned with high-pitched fingers
clenched in fur.
in octaves only shades can bear, i simmer
in their holy cradles.
i become the roughened corner of a mouth
grinning at its own joke.

there, the receding home in ranch-style polaroids of a dirty blond stranger and my mother squinting in the sun; some home not mine or yours.

ventricles, which
in a woman’s left grows tiny,
and in a man’s more supple.
i keep alive by milking goats.

some like lifelines, some like ulcers
the city streets are braided in my hair.

samantha lucero 2018 ©

la tristesse durera toujour

Posted on 2018-03-19 Posted in Poetry, writingTagged dark, depression, isolation, mothers, poem, poety, poverty, sadness, van gogh, vincent van gogh41 Comments

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 ©

2.

Posted on 2018-03-132018-03-13 Posted in Poetry, writingTagged depression, dreams, life after death, lonely boy, memories, nightmares, old age, past, poem, Poetry, songs, vintage16 Comments

where memory rusts, limp on a clunk of

dry land & dragging me through the sequins of a

small earth

i croak to the fractured window of a bone-white ford truck groaning down, shambling up a shaft of dreary road.

i, a silver figment or mislaid filament, a filigree wafting bare thru realms hot & rose-gold, loom where the skeleton of the truck is parked eternal: i see the rotting choir of burst leather spaces, vacant, on which the sun has dug its holes. little else remains within apart from remains; i’ve loped from one graveyard to the next.

840 minutes in a warehouses’ baking mouth bending metal out of men, where oil-dyed hands stain wonder-bread or stay-at-home wives’ necks, they used to make trucks like those. and like the one that was his daddy’s buried in that old garage. all he had was that truck

and all I have are his songs.

you’ll never feel young in your old cage—that’s old age—

a cage.

and all you’ll have are songs.

samantha lucero 2018 ©

HOLLYWOOD HIGH – Collaboration – A.G. Diedericks & Samantha Lucero

Posted on 2018-01-282018-03-08 Posted in Poetry, writing5 Comments

a collab about the historical significance of the code of hammurabi.

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

Heathers and jocks, flock together
You and I tethered to Glocks & black
leather
Clocks broken, shot
into a myopic future
We meditate on bloodlust
of a murdered adolescent reverie,
besotted with living forever
The colour of Mondays changed
when I tasted the insidious guile on
your lips; glossed in Carrie-red
you needn’t incentivize this perilous
heart of mine
for you I would cut off my misanthropic
parchment
and illuminate the dark matter
’cause all that I bleed
is you

coiling in a house where hymns burn
hair
damp or dirt, or fire walk with me.
daddy is a watershed in dallas, mommy
is a wire hanger bent out of shape.
the world is an open wound,
and i am the trace.
you are the knife and the wail.
the wide awake.
the boulevards red myths, sight and
sense,
names in squirming lights, and seeds
on the flashing ground.
west…

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the perfect marriage

Posted on 2017-12-282018-03-13 Posted in Poetry, writingTagged amor fati, depression, freedom, hatred, life, marriage, philosophical pessimism, poem, Poetry24 Comments

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i’ve evolved from spitfoam into hearth-iron ribs
trapped between septic fingers and lost doors.

one gummy eye used to be the rasp moon,
the other a varnished cloud.

i’ve created ants and snow in a womb
for licking, cloying death.

for freezing, for festering age,
years. rafts of web on web.

i scream in a locked room.
where only i am dreaming of being me.

to accumulate in wrinkles that are parenthesis
around your matchwood mouth or baby horns between
the swale of brow-felt.

the hole that gullets its teeth.

time who kills – samantha lucero

Posted on 2017-11-242017-11-24 Posted in PoetryTagged dark, death, horror, life, memories, Nietzsche, no god, poem, Poetry, time, writing7 Comments

SD work.

Sudden Denouement Literary Collective

who kills, father time?

time who kills:
all things.
startling with the drip of a chrysalis stuck threading in a tapered night that once slurped on breast milk and sour bread. a man where clearwing moths have suckled in.
though he peals in fishnets, loud in a mouthy reservoir of silk,
cum is mud, and mud-worms next to a flaring wing, flowering on a spectral chin, making a seedling.
he’s supine underneath the antlers of his boney hands, he’s castrated
or perhaps submerged in the deepest pore of hell. his sons are the immaterial sky, the apathetic sea, the under-dark.
parents, handfuls of dirt, the bleeding ulcers inside the intestines of earth.

time who kills
father time, luxuriating in an oblong sludge, in chianti bottles marked vintage,
“vintage has to be over twenty-five years,” that cunt would squawk, “antique has to be over 100.”
where are the unwashed…

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hours

Posted on 2017-11-022019-01-08 Posted in Poetry, writingTagged birth, children, death, growing old, life, memories, motherhood, mothers, poem, poems, poet, Poetry, pregnancy38 Comments

I see those mottled photos, ornate albums

of yesterdays yellow sun

Of swollen women, dream-like, in a lavender field.

They leash their arms around an oval-shape

becoming empty; the shape deflates, the air comes out like water.

It starts to breathe it’s own small breath in the shape of a person,

someday a man, a woman, sometimes swollen, sometimes

stiff, stark, or bleeding.

Seeing those photos one day,

your nose has memorized leather and tobacco flower.

for her, it’s dr.pepper, Disney on ice

the coty musk she never knew she had just inside the pi of bone.