The year is 2046, and for a price, you can live the life you’ve always wanted… but only in a dream.
(click the picture to listen!)
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
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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.
samantha lucero 2017 ©
time who kills:
time who kills
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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.
samantha lucero 2017 ©
why the silence?
poems used to pinch me out of no where. they’d tap me on the spine in the bathroom, press their cold nose on my ear while i was at the grocery store. they’d well up in my mead glass and i’d drink them until the grin on my face was a glasgow. they’re miniature autobiographies, fiction, non-fiction, the smallest stories, can fit them into a dollhouse.
but my time is scarce. this isn’t a personal diary (i wouldn’t have time for it, even though that might be amusing), and even if i’ve mentioned personal things here before, i prefer to just be my work as much as possible. ‘when mozart died, he just became music.’ — and so, all my time, tiny as it was, has been devoted to writing my novel. the novel is now finished. which means maybe, just maybe, poetry will stab me again. and again.
of course, this means editing for hundreds of years on that novel, but the accomplishment is done and the time has partially freed up. i’ll also be figuring out where i’d like to send it out to, whether or not to use kindle, as this is not my magnum opus. a first novel never is.
i intend to get to work on another novel soon, as well, but i’m taking this time to let the story take root within me. it’s actually a half-finished novel from years ago (the one that i may be working on next, that is.) and i need to bake longer.
as for my book i’ve just written, it’s about a woman who goes on a road trip to kill the man who’s killed her daughter. as i edit, i’ll post excerpts, perhaps from each chapter.
i’ve got a few drafts saved here on wordpress, full of cobwebs and carcasses and carapaces, of some rants about pictures i’ve found in vintage stores, being a mom, which i suppose could pass for prose, so i may be editing those shortly and posting them here.
i also have piles of half-done poems, sad, i know.
and a list of places seeking content…
so here i go to become music again.
When I looked into your eyes that time not long after we first met, I told myself that if I was given the chance, I would go ahead and do it. And such a thing would really impress you and make you want me even though I was just a zero.
Because the black light has been here since the beginning.
When I first discovered what you were in the early hours of the morning while drunk and on the brink, you reached inside of me and brought me back. Sounds melodramatic, I know, but before I found you it was as if I were the only one and that being a zero was all I was good for.
And it’s been burning a hole for so long.
When I swallowed what you had to say, I found a truth that had been denied me my entire life by those…
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© Samantha Lucero 2017
It’s no comfort knowing that you’re buried,
deep down, taking earth around you
like blankets that fall apart and crawl.
But seasons still disrobed like actors
backstage in a play, in front of
everyone. Even with you
gone, the world moved on.
And I watched. We all did.
Forced to watch, without you,
with seasons pouring the years
between us in vanishing old flannel,
smelling like Salem filter kings,
Spring grew through us both
like a blade.
And you died in the summer.
A diamond in that box
they buried you in, deep down,
where you fall apart and crawl, too,
by now. Still waiting to be proposed,
like the plan to go back to Santa Fe.
Sometimes I wait for you to show,
maybe at the movie I go to alone,
sitting next to me when I peek over
in the flickering dark.
You could come around a…
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© Samantha Lucero
‘let sleeping dogs lie’
or if they’re in florida
set them on fire;
let them die.
‘speaking of the plentiful
imagery of the world’
i am the melting ice. i am the gun
on the dashboard to Savannah
for the 4th of July.
i am the word speak
now, or forever hold
for rent: a popular swamp,
far away from the highway.
a tongue left behind with a
womb-scent, a piece of me
in the toilet.
and the dog,
always barking up
the wrong tree.
like mottoes, mildew
crawling up the walls like arrows,
point me away from
the fingers they lick
in prison for nicotine.
they live in a dishwasher so they can
put roaches on my eyes instead
of coins when i die;
this is where he laughed,
where he made me into wax.
they check in, but
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a music video representation of what it looks like on the inside of my mind lately.
trivia: florence welch and i actually share the same birthday.