my scent, not his scent,
but by some changeling blood
could spread the same smile
on halloween. on christmas
waking up in blankets
it didn’t fall asleep in.
there’s bricks that hold down a red
bottlebrush flower from 1994.
she called you honeysuckle,
and thought rats had no bones.
my small hand in his
big glove, rough inside
like sand paper. old yellow leather in
a white truck stuck together
with luck, cigarettes in a soft pack,
right in your shirt pocket, next to the
heart in my hand, in your glove
in a warm cup of coffee,
i could live on that smell and skip
meals for the month of
just the memory of it,
and the dregs of
i could armor myself in you.
live in your flannel and die.
carve a valknut in my chest
over the hole where no light
can get in.
but you’re the one with
the valknut – you’re
the one who earned it.
through a violent death,
but you’d want the cross
“these violent delights
have violent ends.”
samantha lucero 2017 ©
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.
lie there, lie there, little henry lee
till the flesh drops from your bones
for the girl you have in that merry green land
can wait forever for you to come home
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
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.
[a series written a million years ago by a total goth.
unearthed for amusement. posted in parts.
a ridiculed man desperate to find evidence
of the soul embarks on a murderous journey.
PART 1, PART 2, PART 3, PART 4]
Delphia Clyde’s Diary Entry (Before Her Death)
Continue reading “the horseman, pt 5.”
he ripped into my dreams again last night. my long lost friend.
he’s the familiar shadow of a silver-tongued deceiver prowling on the wine wall, amnesia like sequins beading from the rusty valley of his pores, wet grass, filthy winter rain for eyes & i wrangle it all in my mouth like a siren capturing sea-gems on her tongue-bed, held like a bullet caught between teeth. a chthonic jeweler fashioning a ring from heartsick-heavy brows overburdened, incurably lone, melted down to the joint, onto the bone. but he’s just an old year’s specter. a christmas carol. the hot graveyard dust my breath makes in the cold. like always, never truly him. my pulseless chest is sore from pressing against empty air.
i don’t remember what his kurt cobain, dirty-blonde lips tasted like, except for when they tasted like me. i tore apart a red rose and walked to the corner of your street. burned secret words. littered the ashes & petals on the concrete. maybe i ripped you apart, too. i begged gods of love to tell me like so: if you love me come back, if you don’t i will know,
i will know. & i knew.
i whisper in a jar, a hole in a tree
i love you & you’ll never know
the words are trapped there waiting
like the ocean’s song
twirling its hair inside of a shell
already spit out
but still saying its name
over & over.
words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.