old friends

slay the beast
that like a dissolving silhouette
roams at the corner of your eye
leaves when you walk to it
stays a friendly whisper
in your ear
on your weakest,
ugliest days.

find the piece of you that’s rotting
(we’ve all got one)
hunt it out,
                     rip it out
before it makes everything else
around it decay.


words =samantha lucero 2017 ©.
photo = tumblr. aka, you tell me.

you’re not religious

some people are only religious when they see Mary
on the corner with a heart-wet mouth. h a i l  Mary,
full of avian bones and candy wrappers they pick up
at disneyland
that you never see get thrown
away.
won’t you be mine?
perhaps. she makes them think of their mother
smart and streetwise
with all those invisible skirts and ankles
or perhaps the cradle where it all went
down hill; it’s all downhill from there
from birth to showers of sparks
to final scenes fading to black
the camera now pans to an inky bedroom
where you’d cry out and somebody
would always come (or cry too?)
or maybe you used to pray there
like a wound by a candle
no one ever listened to you
— why would ‘they’? —
no one is there.
and that’s okay.
i’m comfortable with that
like sharks are in waves
i’m the steak knife on the kitchen table
by your mothers hand
when she’s crying in a mink coat full of smoke
i’m the girl in the dark; leave me alone.
i want to be here.


words =samantha lucero 2017 ©.
photo = alexa chung.

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.

currently working on:

  • self-publishing my poetry book; dancing around with different designs, sparring with words that want to, need to be said, all tangled up with an impatience to have it mystically accomplished in under an (unrealistic) hour. this is largely for my daughters. as i’ve mentioned, it’s an epitaph in the event that my medical condition goes south quicker than what is expected. it isn’t expected to, but in my life the unexpected has been in the front lines. my life’s an infantry.
  • another horror short story for an indie publishing company. (i’ll post an excerpt eventually.)
  • considering posting the rest of ‘the horseman’ as one large post rather than continuing the ‘series’ style of post.
  • more poems, of course.
  • believing in something other than fatigue & pain.

i’ve been so isolated for a very, very long time that i sometimes stumble on my words in public and for this end up avoiding speaking. i deliberately go in public, but avoid people, because i love being outside. i live in a very interesting area with access to a lot of history and oddities; if you haven’t noticed, i’m into that.

i have been inwardly and outwardly cringing for so long though, and for so many reasons that have piled on my shoulders, making me feel like atlas, that i’m finding it difficult to finally relax now that i can and the world’s off my watch. i’ve had burdens and depression, anxiety, too long to just forget them and think they’re like smoke, just dissipating. i know better than that. the mind leaves leaves marks on itself, like falling asleep on a crease of your pillow. the dent takes time to soften.

i am true introvert and INFJ. this reminds me that i need to refresh my studies of carl jung. he had the same personality type as me, supposedly, and i fell in love with his work many years ago. introversion has nothing to do with being shy. it has to do with your reaction to stimulation. i am very easily overstimulated by loud noise, bright lights, too many people (or is that just my migraines?) — too much to focus on. i want to absorb things too readily. i think it’s because i like to pay close attention to things, one at a time, and end up doing so all at once. i’ve also read that introverts brains tend to pick up on all stimulation as animate (something to pay attention to.) rather than inanimate (looked over.), and therefore they hardly are letting their brain rest. my brain/mind seems to never rest. i wasn’t always like this.

not to mention i have two beautiful demons who need my energy as well.

speak of the devil …

don’t be afraid of the dark

it’s my desire that the membrane of
featureless dark slumbering between you
and a living, breathing world will
never scare you, not from letting go
and dreaming.

i want you to be as untroubled as a feline shadow
stretching back like the vivid light in your young eyes
for you to know that nothing creeps
not in the crawling wisps of bedtime silence,
nor the neutered intentions
left inside the house spiders poisoned heart;
nothing waits there in the resting dark
nothing but folded up dust so neatly cached in
quiet relics long, small memories flung upon
the raw grass of ageless play
where moon meets sun, and sun meets moon
in endless day

think of the mythic wild,
aching for a secret of your river words
tree limbs undressed in winter
waiting for the untamed howl
of the green man’s oily summer yawn
the salt of the sea widowed on your cupid’s bow
a chorus of humming live creatures in the stars
and serenading you with indiscernible hymns
only a child can know and hear;
show me how to listen again.

look not in the cold dark where you cannot see
and think of lonely things which might hang
in the hard corners of your nearing sleep.
shut your eyes. let life rest.
think of the day and how in the dark
there is nothing that was not in the light.
and if there is
let it be afraid of  y o u.


words = samantha lucero 2017 ©
image = wish i knew.

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.

the western ‘across lots’ will be published this month

so the excerpt of the rough draft of what i was working on, which i mentioned here 800 years ago, will be published in the anthology i submitted it for next month. it’s quite violent. i didn’t think they’d accept it. i’ll post more about it when the book is printed.

they also asked for a ‘headshot’ and a bio. naturally, i’m insane and thought about all the scenarios of people knowing what i look like, but then i remembered i’m a viking and i don’t give a fuck. but, i have no pictures of me unless they look like this:

lol.PNG

which is a more accurate portrayal of me; note the child’s hand holding a giraffe. his name is wilson.

but, i decided to attempt a nicer photo with things that weren’t pajamas on, and also bigger, nerdier glasses. just in case.

so this is what i got.the real one.JPG

 

so now you know what i look like. but if you ever see me, i’m dangerous. don’t approach. 🙂

r.i.p.

here lies you, silent as the dust you’ve built
my favored disgrace, my bookmarked witch.

i hang YOU every morning in the mirror. i curl you back from your pacific grave by the rope i buried you in just to hear you scream again.

it’s your tired eyes that shimmer patiently in the placental dark that makes me hold my breath, makes me ooze ‘why?’

some silky word you cup over my mouth like a burglar’s glove;
sometimes i glint like a knife under the moon.”
 sometimes i want to die.

here lies me, the view from the prison behind my eyes. they have to saw a hole there someday. maybe that’s when i’ll go away.

there was the picture of dorian gray that he would hide from everyone. the monster gnawed by its own teeth, the truth.

i am the picture & somewhere is my better half.


words = samantha lucero 2017 ©
image = not mine. from tumblr.

get back on the highway

this place is dead.
it fell down with me into the velvet soil of a fresh-dug grave.
the wisps of faces from their glory days
where their nuclear shadows burned in time
on concrete walls; you see them in their
jalopies, fretting over marlboro reds
they got by fisting pennies into the coinstar, what a jackpot, and
where to put their name in goblin spray paint tonight at 2am? ask H-i-m.
they say he only
knows.
i see them like ants shuttling home their
crumpled friends on twisted backs.
this place is like an amusement park,
except the amusements here
are people’s lives.
perhaps a haunted house.
it’s the grey toxic place where you couldn’t hold it anymore,
everything evaporating, everything broke, everyone
modern pompeii.
an american nightmare.
the next stop not for another 40 miles. same
shit food, same gas station H-e was at, same
lost girl with overgrown acrylic nails she
can’t afford to fill till next paycheck, maybe
not even then. handing you the 15th batch of
fries. have a nice day.
please help me.  i’m anonymous as a flea.
invisible as pain in the dark.


words = samantha lucero 2017 ©
image = giphy.com

smoking

i live at the end
vanishing in the bed of a wine glass,
a stuck-stain that only dissolves in hot water.
l et  t he  d a rk  o ne  i n,
& maybe your wet fingerprint can rouse me again.
i breathe deep when i’m alone because it’s the only time that i remember i’m alive. i’m here. where are you?
i want a cigarette w/ hot chamomile. it’s 11:59pm & you had a fireplace that night, naked on a floor. the miracle of sleep skips my window, no wonder. the undead mouth of my house is ice-teethed, damp skin emerging from the tub steams. it’s sharp, the air, comforting.
i want the wild-hunt smoke in my throat; the drifting dust in my head, the slit feline focus on the void that softens into ridiculed slumber. the sex/bonfire scent in my hair. dreams with no fingers; no remorse.
i want the way that it made the cold feel like part of my skin. how icy, small, spidery my hand crawls in the winter-white outside reaching thru the firmament of a ripped screen in a tiny kitchen into the starry night, hey, nice apartment. empty as my swallowed eyes.
i lived there when i could smoke.
me & van gogh & christmas eve.
i was alone then, & now
i live at the end
vanishing in the bed of a wine glass,
a stuck-stain that only dissolves with a tongue that can’t reach it.
i breathe deep when i’m alone because it’s the only time that i remember i’m alive. am i still here? are  y o u?
i want to remember what it’s like to love you, to obsess, when i’m at my best.
but love leaves like seasons.
& now i’m the tear in the veil.
the venom cup of breastmilk that waits at the last table.
of all, always ending in the end.
burn me when i die. put me in a dry merlot.
drink my ashes & tell me you’re my grave.
i live at the end
vanishing in the bed of a wine glass.


words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.