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 ©
I was blue on that blue moon
Or was it the wolf.
Where I was like Virginia or Sylvia,
howling with rage and gloom.
And death was there
And she was digging out as I was digging in.
I was the infant in the woods
The creature hating its creator,
But unlike the creature, our creator is obscure
we cannot hunt him down and ask him:
© Samantha Lucero
submitting poetry to big(ger) publications.
here’s to waiting 6+ months to see if one, or both will be published in the new yorker.
the thing that sucks isn’t the waiting, in fact, that’s the best part because i forget completely and therefore all attachment dissolves. the thing that sucks is that i sent them two poems i ended up really, really loving and want to put them into my poetry book, which i might publish before they reject me. and then those two gems are left behind.
then again, i could just keep accumulating more work until then, it depends.
the novel is taking center stage in my time and attention lately anyway.
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,
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.
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
that you never see get thrown
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.
some months ago, i wrote a poem for an anthology chiefly interested in salem history (no, not this one!) and it was accepted for publication. it’ll be featured in the upcoming book named above. you can find more details about it [HERE]. that will apparate you to a pre-order page, but you can read the gist of the atmosphere of the book. and yes, i did just use a harry potter term.
i am so fucking delighted about being in that book. i love salem. since one of my best bitches lives not far from there, i’ve gone plenty of times. salem also has the best indian restaurant EVER IN THE GALAXY (besides the one in california i used to frequent in my past life.) it’s called passage to india, and if you’re ever in town, go.
i’ve also always been fascinated with the history of the place, which should come as no surprise considering i adore most all things macabre, relating to behavioral psychology or criminal as a bonus, mysterious and wretched in history.
the title was inspired by the username of a past writing partner of mine who i loved working with, who is one of the best writers i’ve ever met. she used to write as a witch and i as a magician in our stories. she knows who she is. although, she may never read this.
here’s a small excerpt:
She is the ratty crone who dwells in tears
intruding up the mildew walls of sick-dreams,
like howling veins bulging for a snake-bite
shuddering to the open grin of a white moon
so my life has been insane. how fitting, since i am too. or at least that’s what they say.
has been? is. currently and always. in some ways and in many.
i have an urge to pour out an intensely personal blog post, but i’m too exhausted or afraid. i live far too much in my own mind, and although typing makes it easier to get it all out, lately it’s hard for me to talk about anything.
but hey, remember how i’ve mentioned that i was working on another short horror story for an indie anthology? finished and submitted. we’ll see what happens.
speaking of anthologies, i’m going to be receiving my physical copy of “the mountain pass”, the other indie anthology i wrote ‘across lots’ for sometime soon. it’s available, along with the sample, on the publishers website and on amazon kindle. my story is actually the first one in the book, so you can read most of it in the sample on their website, but if you want to read the entire thing (my story, not the whole book), go to the sample on amazon. 😉 there’s a little bit of the second story in there as well from another writer. i can’t wait to read all the other stories in it.
i’ll be working on my own novel, which i will painstakingly attempt to publish at a bigger house, and self-publishing my poetry book onward. any poem i write for the book will be put on my blog or at sudden denouement anyway. the book isn’t intended to be all original work.
maybe i’ll put together a few other stories for indie places if i have time.
i still need to smash the remaining entries of the horseman into one post… soon.
without further ado, here’s an excerpt of what i’ve sent to an anthology call asking for stories taking place on halloween, in the same city (salem) in different decades. i chose 1973. a few years after the manson murders.
let’s kill her
Continue reading “a virgo unsurprisingly complaining, a link to ‘across lots’ & an excerpt from “let’s kill her.””