her eyes were emerald cities in tourmaline
mist spit down from the burning moon
though soot and whisper woke my wolf-child
from her yellow maidens melody
she pooled in fevered mulch and wooden pearls
that he planted with misery and pined out
by laughing at the demon-fruit;
by dining in the diamond’s vein
restlessly into that muddy river’s spine
frothed sticky, milk-white limbs
butter-knifed into the nectar of a princess cut
moonstone, stinging quietly as ruby winds
on brand new wings
and way over the feather-laden fields, far out
where she tangles, soaking in the grave he wept her
the mineral tongue of earth has lapped her
swallowed gems and all
words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.
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”