salem

It was there I felt an elemental shimmer wafting down, twirling down the clattered network of algae-clothed river stone, the molten hues of the unearthly chant. Hand-in-hand they harnessed three on the curled tongue of watery twilight, a hatched maiden circlet of prancing untamed snake-hair, delirious, and drifting over scratched tree-bitten hips by bark-teeth. All wailing midnight colors swooned and surmounted here in the night-spell, disorderly and bare as first birth, bells on their profane ankle bones, sacred toes manic in the old gods organic gems, varnished in oil and star blood.

I know them from the heart-stopping slip in my dreams, the air-stealing haunt they take on barren wombs, open tombs, the purple iris of the childless woman. The listening eyes in the quiet dark, nails filthy following the aeons placental scent. Throned Ancestress. Buried Vestal. Burned Witch.

I taste their hazy names like fire and dirt, watching, wishing to suffuse and collide. I am cowed by the inheritance of my own intrinsic power. Intimidated by their peace and embers.

Someday they will know my hellfire wish. I’ll tell them with a billowing tongue.


words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.

thought & memory

in auguries of noisy snow
of iron-hammered stormy sons
they worship an emollient breath
of black masks in tangling roots
where he stations by charting death
in patched dreams you soon forget

someday he will rejoin me there
his war-eye sown on the ice river
like a long missed ally whistling home
impervious to the stinging age
of nomad bones ingesting  dark
on a moss-throne of hinting swords

someday he will ease the shield

like a mindful lover, heedful of wrath

waiting hungrily at my white-cloth altar

in the watery mouth of a young coffin

wearing the chapped smoking grin

of a burned down god


words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = not mine.

bruises are mine

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.

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.

fortune teller

click, clamber & it backfires

swerves, my solstice milkmaid sails

on a dreamy seafoam bed of nails

lathers in the hungry chorus

of a hundred haunted fingers

lets them pluck a symphony of her bones

you are spring now; you are ruby

salve. dead petals on charred bread

the witch’s secret

you are not the ghost of winter laying bare

& inky dark inside the ashes of a house of cards

but the silver lining stepping

out of the graveyard & onto their toes


words = samantha lucero 2016 ©
image = laura makabresku.

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”