Unbridled
Just the way a blacksmith only hits the iron so long as it’s hot
some creatures silence their own cardiac beat
when they stomp on you like crazy horses running on the moors
or like vampires that bite into your jugular vein
like dogs well trained by cruel masters
and you may know why but not when
and they always know how to find
the best wine in town
how to keep you stuck in between thighs of wisdom
how to trap you in the maze of their minds
laughing at you when you stumble through their riddled neurons.
They come along with a chalice of desire half empty
a joint between wet lips, an enthralling glance calling you
hey, Jack
hey, sweet Mary Jane
but if you burn for them you might be called even Phoenix
and they know how to get you high
without you being drunk
with no need of that ice and fire thing
and a silvery spoon
they bleed their lust on your couch
and do things with their clothes on
and sure there’s no cuddling afterwards
they rush back to their lairs where there’s no need to drop a lie
every sixty minutes
there, they jump out of their pants
with no urge to run away
anymore
and donate their found anew heartbeat to the gelid satellite
pinning down the moon in her nuptial bed
and finally making love like Narcissus at the pond.
There’s a reason behind every unbridled horse:
they are too bloody wild.
Mirror Introspection
Yesterday morning I stared
into the mirror and I saw what I was supposed to see
thin lips
brown eyes;
I wish they were green
but if I look closely
in summertime
they are like wet moss
on the tree’s bark
when the night approaches it
and I thought at those I saw
last week
they were parading for their liberty lost
from behind black face masks
they looked like mourners
around a funerary catafalque
unaware of whose death
they’re crying over
I also attend such
events from time to time
but I always end up wailing
for my own dead
but then I take a stroll
on cobbled streets
and I smile at street artists
with my lips that get thinner and thinner
as they stretch over my teeth
and you can bet that I sip them
with my eyes
that will never be truly green
Fiddler, Green Eyes
Place your violin between shoulder and chin, old fiddler,
play it like that gypsy did
in a hazy restaurant
when I was a little girl.
He was looking me in the eyes
that were taking on the path
of weeping.
I was afraid of those green irises
and now I know why;
he told his fellas, “how pretty she is, I’ll marry her if she keeps her beauty when she grows up”.
Go on, play that song that
emptied my daddy’s pockets
between a tear and a laugh.
The embalmed raven from above the ladies room door
pried on us through clouds of smoke.
Rub the chords a little bit more
up to the sore point
for the sake of my infancy gone
and found anew a bit
on this sidewalk.
Dumpster Fire Press 