P7: Sloppy.

Morbid Corvid

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Always hard when a case goes cold, the sweaty man says with his pot-belly big and hard as a boulder, smelling strongly of pabst blue ribbon, endless, wet layers of Marlboro second-hand smoke paining Robs over-sensitive nose, and the un-sanitized, humid flesh of a man who is unmercifully inattentive to his own hygiene. Rob mulls intellectually over the mind of man who can live so happily in the organic outcomes of his self: a sign of depression, of a mind too burdened and brimming to leave room for thoughts of cleanliness. Was this the unique torture of all those who dwelled in centuries past, to be ignorant of their own stench, tolerant of everybody else’s?

The sloppy man, loosening scents behind him of his squalid motel when he’d shift standing as if in chronic agony, also talked too much: was this a guilty mind, or an innocent one over-compensating for…

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P5: Memory.

Morbid Corvid

before.

No, please… I wanna live… she’d implored, tears from both burning eyes stumbling down hotly in a race to the curves of her jaw.

The severity hadn’t settled in her features like powder in fine lines or the pores one gets as the pertinacity of age needles the helpless face and weathers the lukewarm spirit in icy gales, but keeps all pain locked behind the eyes. She takes this doggedness as a game, and only as a precaution did she weep before the few folk gathered.

They are red-faced religious zealots convinced that they’re faintly touched by something celestial, with stares like beams from moonlight towers, high and mighty and distant. Two tall-haired women feathered and coated in aqua net, basked in the vaporous, undead radiance of fluorescent lightbulbs. The man is dark and hollow, handsome in a bygone era, like a man sucked out, shriveled against his own…

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P4: Canis Major.

Morbid Corvid

The strange, stubborn man named Rob pursuing answers to his unusual questions galore had taken his leave hours ago, yet all the big-eyed adults, bloodshot from their reefer, worried themselves aloud in speculation over whether or not he would return; perhaps, equipped with more questions. The moon, full and white, pasted on a black, peerless sky is potholed by radiant galaxies overhead, and they weep together.

Gazes tearful and others in disbelief scanned whereabouts the flatlands and black mesas rose in the night, unseen, spooked as they clutch their few children nearer; a bonfire palpitates, glinting in their furrowed, anxious eyes.

Poor Ashley, the sunbaked, grinning man says; the skinny man, the scraggly man, the reeking man, whose stench is of male musk and unwashed scalp.

I wish she could’ve been here, with us, says he, as he passes crimson solo cups to all present in the bizarre gathering. The…

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P3: Cursed.

Morbid Corvid

Rob’s Notes, 24 OCT 1986.

1:38PM

Wasn’t the girl? Mother caused a scene, told her step aside, give me her name, name: Corrine Green, worried, sincere … girl showed when younger man name: Carlos Almada, teenaged, brought daughter Virginia to scene. Mother and daughter wept: hold onto each other, could’ve been you. Ask them about local area– pretty quiet, few strange people, Adam, Serena, Bradley, house on the corner with overgrown lawn, at night driving home with windows down, the overfamiliar sound of howling.

Girl is Jane Doe (for now?). Local P.D + F.B.I. not allowed to meddle in Native American Affairs, girl believed to be from nearby reservation, few girls gone missing over the past 6 months, marks on face hidden underneath red dress -was covering-.

We’re F.B.I., but we can meddle…

Jane Doe had object in right ear:

* small, red glass bead.
* inserted post-mortem into vagina…

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P2: Mother.

warning: i have a few things to reblog. i’m sorry for the million posts. and by a million, i mean perhaps 4.

Morbid Corvid

The heavy rain outside becomes mere mist.

There’s a strong pulse of music in the night and it throbs through to the wet bones of the lonely earth. Through the feet of the intoxicated, curly-haired dancer-women in their woven huaraches who can feel ovals of dirt invading their shoes and the tall dark men that employ Kiwi polish to fruitlessly shine their finest, dusty boots in the hot afternoons, it pounds. Yet here those very fine boots are, dustier still in the sinking curtains of dusk. The tavern revelers outpouring, phantoming about them traces of Tres Flores and off-brand ladies’ imitation designer perfume, dance in the vaporous scent of their own body odors following them out onto the road.

A woman in mid-laughter catches the ankle of the unseen deceased, as if it is some otherworldly detail that rose up suddenly from the landscape un-belonging there. She falls theatrically backward…

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Homesick – Samantha Lucero

a recent piece of mine over at FVR.

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

o’ willing death

that you should falter

from a barren road and howl

in the blood,

and like those homesick for the

womb

could ripple in the living dark.

or should you tap,

i wouldn’t dare a dirty look

over my time-worn shoulder,

where hard moments have made

runic mobs. rather would i,

wonderstruck,

gape up at that maudlin deathbed

of worshipping pinpricks;

those clean, bright stars.

where i have ever amused

a close embrace, i have been

half-hearted. watching an

umbilical of white-hot

lightning

dash across my life;

i watch it tramp out fires

in my warring heart,

one already ill with

yearning.

o’ willing death;

that you would whirl

and whisper in my arms,

but only once i wet

my scalp again in snow,

and endure yet

many moons

to come, that when they

bury my heart in los

cerrillos, the red soil

rejoices,

and those mountebank stars

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P1: The Red Dress.

remember how i’ve written a horror-crime series some time ago? i’ve started it up again. i’ll be posting them weekly at morbid corvid.

 

i didn’t think i’d ever revisit this setting, even though in my mind, each story i’ve ever written is typically in the same world, but sometimes characters have more to say; more to their stories.

 

here’s part one.

Morbid Corvid

MADRID, NM: 22:39 hrs.

The body is ordered quietly alongside the miry vein of the dirt road, surreptitious, unnerving in the forlorn look of it for seeming uncannily etched there or precisely carved and pale-painted, right into the southwestern landscape; it is grotesquely exquisite.

The body has ceremoniously rested here a long while, awaiting discovery with a mute patience, and in its dreamless death it doth rest eternal; some elsewhere realm they say the ancestors embrace her troubled ghost. Here the body she left behind lies with spatters of old, dried blood being wetted and carried red and away by baptismal raindrops soldiering over her. The young hands are draped aesthetically on bruised ribs, and she seems coldly to glow in the defunct amnion of night. A girl too soon returned to earth with filth caught beneath the fingernails; a hint at an earlier struggle evidently not won. The face and…

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Can you feel it in the bed – Samantha Lucero

my work at FVR.

FREE VERSE REVOLUTION

Can you feel it in the bed, where cleanly buried
a worm moon in its high-noon velvet march,
swells, & smiles white & scrawls in
the hearts bough, a jack-knife digging in. 
 
In one sink-beds brine, where it’s sunk, 
pursed in the secret night; it wrote on
sunburnt meat of hard-surviving lads, 
hammered down in casket nails, & 
supping bellyfuls of bathtub gin, burning 
– burning once, on fire easily as kerosine,
& just as gladly, snuffed.  
 
A pink-fingered tree over love’s headstone,
thrust with its skinny leg-trunk lodged
in lush ferns, marauded by rabid wolf spiders; 
the grave-bed of a long goodbye.


Samantha Lucero writes stuff, sometimes, and you can find more of her work at sixredseeds.com.

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feelings unnamed

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 ©