dark smoke verse

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Smoking 
French 
     poetry whore 
cigarettes
o n e,  
         a f t e r  
       t h e  
o t h e r

i wet my lips,
i puff—
frail
particles of
d i f f u s e d 
s   m   o   k   e

                                 S
                    d                       u

               n            m    e            r 

                    u                        r 
                                 o
       
i bat my eyelids,
i stare away.
and puff—
o n e 
        a f t e r 
    t h e 
o t h e r

still no
words, yet
i perceive
some 
d a r k 
v e r s e  
s  m  o  k  e

has subtly 
embraced
— p  o  s  s  e  s  s  e  d —
my  f e a t h e r e d
d  r  e  a  m  s
 
and, 
while
i type
a widowed
v e r s e —

for a poem
i may
have dreamed—
but will
never, in ink,
b i r t h

smoking 
French 
     poetry whore 
cigarettes
 o n e,  
         a f t e r  
       t h e  
o t h e r

a drunken 
song
waltzes 
  around
  i n 
      m y 
            h  e  a  d 

                  “they’re not good for you.
              he’s not good for you.
             stop wasting
                     y   o  u  r 
           b      r      e    a   t    h
                     a            w            a            y 

remember—
smoking
      ain’t good
for 
    the 
l i v i n g .”

   i     n      h       a       l       e.
 e       x       h       a       l       e.
s  m  o  k  i  n  g
   o n e , 
        a f t e r 
   t h e 
o t h e r

         a
       subtly
    s o o t h i n g
               d a r k ,
      s  m  o  k  e  d
                v   e   r   s   e

                                 e
                    s                       m

                e           m    e            b 

                    c                        r 
                                 a
       


burgundy nights

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wording wondrous wreckage
imagining feasts of rhyme
and lusting after 
verse-full fancy

ty p i ng  
              t
               h
                 e 
                 
                   e
                  n
                 n
               u 
          i 

    a            w         a           y

through burgundy
written
stanzas

as 
     the 
           drama 
                         Queen 
                                     she
                       wasn’t
          meant
     to
be
   .
      .
         .
          y e t — s h e ' d   b  e  c  o  m  e
       .
    .
 .
       and
 then
   she closed
              her eyes

                 p
                  r
                  e
                  t
                e 
             n
           d
         i
      n
       g

   n o t h i n g

  h  a  d   

 e   v   e  r

h     a     p      p     e     n     e     d

H e r o i n e

Photo by Luca Nardone on Pexels.com
You hit me /
Immense high /
Dried ginger clouds
Mischievously 
Embrace me /
While I float away
I n  g o d l y
S  o  u  n  d  s  c  a  p  e /

I start
Sliding down
To viscous darkness /
Engulfing me / 
U n a w a r e /
Faintly blurring away
Y o u r  t r u e
E  x  i  s  t  e  n  c  e /

Hopelessly 
I hit
The ground /
And dive into
The murkiest
Depths
I ’ v e  e v e r
I  n  h  a  b  i  t  e  d /

Junkie dwarfs
Deftly conceal
Your
Exit 
plan /
To my blankly
S i l e n t
E  y  e  s /

I’m certain
You will
Never 
Say 
Sorry /
For those games 
Y o u
P  l  a  y  e  d /

You were Pure
Heroine /
And into
That gutter /
I do not want /
Again /
T o  fall /
W  i  l  l  i  n  g  l  y  /

One last 
Poetic killer
Card 
You hide /
As again /
Y o u   h  i  t   m  e
V  e  r  s  e - l  e  s  s  l  y /

You
A r e  n  o  w
G   o   n   e /  I  /
               A  m   n  o  w
              G   o   n   e /
B  o  t  h    b   u   t     f  a  i  n  t
S        m       o       k       e /

Of  w h a t 
W e
O  n  c  e
W  e  r  e/
            W h a t
            C o u l d /
           H   a   v   e /
           B    e    e    n /

/ I 
  Am 
  Ever
   So / 
   Sorry /
   F  o  r
             O  u  r
                        L   o   s   s / / /

P.S.

I resurrected /
That is 
The epilogue
Your literary eyes
Will 
Never
G e t  t o 
R  e  a  d /

So /
As
I start 
Combatively
Writing 
M y  
O w n
H i  s  t  o  r  y /

I stop
Mourning 
Us /
And
Become /
T h e  h e r o i n e
i n  m y  o w n
S  t  o  r   y /

I    n    s    t    e   a    d

pink dream

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she wears 
a pink dress
to hide
her petulant 
d a r k n e s s

turbulently staring
as if she’d been living
the dream and was now
anxiously grasping for
b r e a t h

when she finds out
about reality
she starts
walking the walk—
those platform
s h o e s

the ones that
so very 
silently
hurt her 
slim 
a n k l e s

towering
over his thoughts,
pink-stained,
so very
badly 
e n c l o s e d

In the yet to be
unmasked
confines 
of his
i m a g i n a t i o n

ink tickles

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i write 
on your page
slightly tickling 
your skin 
with a
white 
f  e  a  t  h  e  r

dipping my finger
into the porcelain
inkwell—
so delicately
moist with 
i n d i g o
i n k

my soft
strokes very
lightly caress 
the most sensitive 
creases
on your 
p  a  g  e
 
i take my 
dripping finger,
full of sensuous thirst,
and autograph 
some verse bites
on your back
c  o  v  e  r

and all night long
i keep writing
free rhymes
until you 
drunkenly 
fall
a  s  l  e  e  p

no need
for more words
as smudged ink
reveals i am about
to lose a bird
of my own
f  e  a  t  h  e   r

so long,
writing lover
of mine—
here is one last
indigo ink
tickle
for your 

g o o d n i g h t
p  o  e  t  i  c
d   r   e   a   m    s

silky promises

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you told me 
you’d be there
for me
that you’d read
my words
late at 
n i g h t

those silky
promises

yet you only
skimmed through
those lines
flapping your
dark godly wings
flying out to more
luscious
v e r s e s

those silky
promises

so exquisitely thin
one can still
inhale the aroma
of cheap cigar
dressed up 
in cuban
a t t i r e

those silky
promises

the words
are still there
for your one
and only 
reading
pleasure

naked
flowery
dark
and
mourning

just for your
eyes only,
those very silky 
promises,

u n d e r

t h e

p a l e

m o o n l i g h t

poetic hangover

Photo by Stacey Gabrielle Koenitz Rozells on Pexels.com
verse
bursts
exploding
against
your 
connoisseur
poetic
p  a  l  a  t  e ,

barely
tickling
your
fancy
cushioned 
b  r  a  i  n ,

inebriated
with wordplay,
then nursing 
your poetic
hangover 
back to
s  o  b  r  i  e  t  y .

verse
bursts
exploding
against
your 
connoisseur
poetic
p  a  l  a  t  e ,

always
yearning for 
new embellished
rhymes
to lick and
f  o  n  d  l  e ,

distilled liqueurs
wasting away
in that—
your vintage
cellar
without a
n  a  m  e ,

all verse—
aflame,
oh, such a
s  h  a  m  e  .

sea breeze

Photo by Anni Roenkae on Pexels.com
the chapters
we stopped writing,
subtly smeared
like a
B   r   e   e   z   e

the words we
never uttered,
all forgotten
like a 
B   r   e   e   z   e

crushed ice,
some bitter grapefruit,
drowned with vodka
like a
B   r   e   e   z   e

enjoy the 
subtle solace
of those berries
like a
B   r   e   e   z   e

breathe on
an empty stomach
of love poems
like a
B   r   e   e   z   e

love with
a puzzled mind,
ruby caresses
like a
B   r   e   e   z   e

a new
unwritten chapter
unpublished opus—
w r i t t e n
B   r   e   e   z   e

gone ---
with 
the 
s  e  a 
B   r   e   e   z   e
.
.
.

fun
thing is,

it wasn't

e v e n

a    c  o  c  k  t  a  i  l 

N      I      G      H      T

pale verses

Photo by Roberto Shumski on Pexels.com
blue at night
falling prey
to those 
crystallised 
t   e   a   r   s

pale verses
written 
for you—
o   n   l   y

and dissolving
in the air
like cigar
p        u       f       f      s

i want to kiss
the immense
depth of
your dark
f   e   a   r   s

when you are
blue at night,
and hope for
an answer to your
p      r      a      y       e      r      s

pale verses
to hold tight to
as if they were
your

r
e
s
c
u
e

r
o
p
e
s

for
those blue  
n    i     g    h    t    s