The Bogus Line

 

You crawl along the marrow in my long bones

and at the base of my skull, whispering in my ear.

You crawl between my legs 

and curl around my teeth and fingernails.

"Let's get fucked up." 

Even after all this time, 

there you are, my old frenemy

offering your false comfort.

I'm not the lonesome kid that I was anymore,

the one who skipped the day when they taught the language

that gets you in and gets you by.

I was with my almost-twin, the future suicide.

"Let's check out," 

The worst I'm gonna do is oversleep,

so save it, killer. 

I know you're lying cos your lips are moving.

You're the dark alley with roses at the way in.

You're the lover with zip ties in the pillowcase.

I'm the woman walking alone for miles and miles and miles. 

I'm the woman who knows your moves and bogus line.

I'm not the lonesome kid I was anymore

but never learned the language, so made up my own--

It's killer stuff and I'm

whistling past the graveyard on my way home. 

_______________-

I went looking for a poetry prompt and found one HERE. I used #3, to describe the sensation of listening to a favorite song in a language you don't understand. I chose Patricia's Mes Reves de Satin (Nights In White Satin.) I do know some French, but I'm not fluent. 

Reanimated Lavender Granola Switchblade Nun Rides Again

 

Halloween is fun but it's over and the 

candy-scamming spooks

are back in class.

Turkeys wearing pilgrim hats are taped

on the windows and the President

pardons some tom

who has no idea what these talky apes are laughing about.

He'd rather be out in the woods,

eating fruits and nuts

and taking a run at your car on a dirt road when you blow by

for cider and a donut.

From what I read, pilgrims

were a pretty constipated bunch.

When I was outed, the family holiday invitations

dried right up. Poof!

After Halloween, the faux dead rest, but when real people die,

sometimes it takes some time.

Some make nice

some get high

some find a new family

some suicide.

Me, I survived, hanging out with the fruits and nuts,

and my blood and kin?  

Dead to me as if they'd fallen on some foreign shore.

_________

for Dverse Poetics: Epiphany In The Time of Holiday

Wandering Eye

How could I have a wandering eye,
when mine are always demure,
downcast,
almost falling into my tea like sugar cubes?

I claim nothing;
no opinion, no item, no gesture
as my own--
I borrowed this hat,
these gloves,
this face with its serenely docile expression.

However, underneath 
like a forgotten marker,
is my skull, twinned with socket-blanks
and the moths that emerge and expand by wing and instinct.

Relax, dear Master.
Everyone admires your wool suits,
your silk cravats,
and your cashmere sense of entitlement.

On the other hand,
no one sees or suspects the devouring flutter I unleash from concealment
without a word,
without fanfare,
without blinking.
_______

for Magpie #255 

Opening the Spider Box

opening the spider box
reveals a soft egg supported
on eight shades of darkness.

its fingertip venom kiss
is the slowing of all senses,
memory, hope, everything.

all i can tell you is,
set your hands to anything, move your feet anywhere
the box is not, and it will buy you another morning to think it over.
______

image found on weheartit.com