EMILY

i was once obscure
like food stains under skirts
or a film of oil on a flowers tongue
but i grew to be a bigger blemish
like a birthmark on gods face
until i had to hide away
so no one saw

death had come on many occasions
and i, the greeter at the door would grin
but i was not the company he was looking for
when i’d invite him in

thus i watched them all march out
my loves; one-by-one and fall to ash
and still i, never being the one sought out
began to wear white instead of black
to mourn; no coward soul is mine,
in hopes he’d never return.


words = samantha lucero 2017 ©.
photo = emily dickinson.

like a stone

this blog is for writing poetry and stories.

i’ve been missing from here lately, because i’ve devoted a lot more time to personal endeavors (working on several short stories, self publishing the poetry book i’ve mentioned, and finishing a full-length novel.) i’ve also been depressed. i usually would have never admitted that, but in this place is feels anonymous enough. i’ve also been toiling over a few new poems, but i’m here to acknowledge someone else’s work. someone no longer with us.

although i was struck harder by bowie and cohen this year, especially cohen since his music and his words have had an influence on my own, chris cornell was like a drafty candle in the background of a lot of the musical influences in my youthful memories. his bands occasionally had hits that i’d listen to on repeat. he was a poet, and not many know that.

this song is one of the best songs ever written, obviously not one of the best videos. many people have moved on from it still believing it’s a love song — it’s not. it’s about death. and since he has died it is a privilege to see into his mind even from many years ago. the video is amusingly early 2000’s with the lack of skinny jeans and manicured facial hair, but i hope that he’s finally where he wants to be.

on a cobweb afternoon
   in a room full of emptiness
      by a freeway I confess
           i was lost in the pages
               of a book full of death
                    reading how we’ll die alone
                       and if we’re good, we’ll lay to rest
                             anywhere we want to go

the monsters are due on vine street

of a grin usually on the missing
persons board at truck stops
where famished men would pick up hitch-hiking
girl-children run aways, escaping home
to find themselves, smelling like
violins in the attic
here she is in red-hot-red,
rose-red, blood-red, a portrait streak of
glitter high-heels with no hosiery
ankles with tattoos of talaria wings
and a wink at an invisible camera

she’s such a gem, such a picture
on the side of the road on her back
holding out her upturned palms to catch the diving
heavy rain, collecting it inside of the sinkhole
of her open mouth,
crooked THERE, like a tangled doll.

do you see that glorious photograph
of her alive, when she felt so dead
and here she is getting the flashing
lights she craved, licking the gravel
on sunset boulevard, dead as the moon
only bright because the camera catches
the last expression that her face made before
she fell into that uncanny embrace
of unknowable death, where the eyes, wide like wax
stare out into another, unseen place
blind to where everyone else remains now
because she’s escaped and found herself

who killed—— ?

the best psychics in venice beach
say his name was ——.


words = samantha lucero 2017 ©
image = tumblr, as usual.

meet me

there’s a splintery hand on my itchy throat

Y E S

chain-smoking chemical lights with a cat-grin
fangs winking & biting into the swan-lake
neck of the unloving moon
& a peace that’s always prayed for festers in the ears
but the knock that never comes to say
your wishes have arrived pales in your vampiric heart.

my lips, lost in thought, are clotted by an amnion of flesh
to the golden filter of a yellow pack of american spirits
thinking of your living hands, thinking of danger, thinking about
getting out of here, of everywhere
the enemy-skin bleeds of hesitated words or held breath,
i taste my own blood
& like the soft wolves of sudden-grey sleep
waiting there
i lick, fetal-lick. curl & lay.

i’ve got half a mind left, the other half obscure, and that barbed-wire boundary can’t even seek refuge in its own cage. half my mind is somewhere wailing in a hellkitchen into a hollow-bone bottle of blackwood. half my mind where it begs for retreat, for an unexplored path to surrender, raises a white flag into heaven that just comes back down with bullet holes.
& the knuckle-numbing snow days
i miss more than i love my own life linger like smoke outside that bar.
the smell’s in the edges of my hair. the smell is waiting there.
with you. s o m e where.


words = samantha lucero 2017 ©
image = giphy.com.

free

someday soon, we

will be the ashes

in the eye of the

moon

we will be the game

in the foxes teeth

he tongues and

hides within his hole

we will see the dusk

in the archers sleep

and be the feather napping

in his cap

we will know what

lies beyond the mirror

and see the yarn

that holds together seas

we will stow away

on soft winds to Greece

where like our own memories

wonder is buried in shades of shame

I will fold winter

into summers skirts,

march into the castle

of the milky way

smiling

stealing the ice hearts

and black eyes of

snowmen

and we will be free

 


words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.

a tale of 2 puppets

here’s an ancient short story of my yesteryears written in one of my long, wine-soaked weeks passed. i can’t even remember which time period it was put together. before the military? during?  i recently submitted it for a small anthology. it was consequently rejected (like most of my stuff.) but i can see why, and you will too. the language is too phantasmagoric and cluttered to be in a book of compiled stories likely meant to be a mild read instead of a WTF.  originally, the marionette show was in san francisco, and i only adapted it to be in new orleans. that was pretty much my only edit. i just like showing the writing of my past, to me, to anyone. it’s like a glimpse of where my mind was back then. i know exactly who i wrote the story about… and it’s still my secret to the grave.

i’m also still on the fence about whether or not to submit the other short story that i’ve written. the one that i previously posted an excerpt of about a woman who loses everything on a mountain pass. i’d rather have it as a stand alone rather than incorporated in someone else’s vision. although, they’d likely reject it. it’s a bit more quentin tarantino than i’m sure they’re used to. we’ll see.

and, since i’ll have more time in the coming months and perhaps less of this weighty writers block, i can finish the few novels i’ve got chapters and chapters for with no end yet, but planned. i love writing poems and shorts, but a finished novel is my ultimate goal.

THE OLDE PUPPET SHOW

Continue reading “a tale of 2 puppets”

that overcast sleep

In my fondest scene of final liberty, before freedom transmuted to debris, everything was smothered-emerald glass, drown-bride grey, earthy-wet and fertile in my memory.
I excavate the loam of Ireland’s splintery bones in my graveyard dreams. I devour the moon surface of the windswept burren. There I am, artless skin, shuttered stare, dissolving against the purging sun. An alchemical zeal moistured into me an urge forever to weep.
I stole a spell-piece of stone from an icy gale, conjoined with a flower-twin, enslaved it for its precious prison color to hoard for my drowsy life. A myth reminder. And even now it’s throbbing pigment dies somewhere, unsmooth. Mislaid it’s magick leaguing oceans.
Here parade heartsick clouds, the revenant lacquer of grandfathers eyes before he died, an endless chain of cobblestone bruises and strangle-spoken veins. Crooked underneath neglected dirt, the effigy milk-maiden, the howling birthmother, the herb potion crone. The coursing rage of painted man that floods to the enemy, the empty toy teeth, the starving child, covered face.
I fantasize the chronicled doom of the cloister, living in the curl of a question mark, a forgotten spine. Catlike once, warm and purring, now waxy phantom and claw. She lived in the shard of a reliquary yonder, a rotten tooth on a hill she died on, no where to flee. Nothing edible but horror, waste, shame.
The tour guide thrills a finger toward a tide of wilting headstones, the crumpled lovenotes of fallen castles, the tiny littering spookshows of a famine.
I’ve never listened more closely for ancient whispers, waiting breathless for a whimper.

 


words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.

ritual

we were but girl-children

to the deathless moon

in this heavy-lidded woodland

eyes like soapy lanterns

twitching in the cradle-dust

still, we voyaged in

joined like dollhouse mountains

my bloodstone-sister was an untamed altar

at which they encroached, wept like ivy

unhinged men & their fresh shoulders

who would pile at her godforsaken toes

to revere, to wide-eyed pray, to boast

a ritual for veneration

that would never starve

still, she dared in

i was but a prying mortal girl & out-of-body

fingering sorries inside a waning pouch

i scooped from meat-faced vultures

dripping the diamond scent of

a grey folklore

which i bittersweetly appointed

on my melancholy own

still, i delved in

i don’t believe we ever emigrated

from the royal purple cold, unpolished wild

or the leather harness of the unclothed bark

of yolky-sun, of pine-fragrant wrangles of trees

here silver-winter comes & time to

urge patient gods to bare one more

love-seat, for me & death


words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.