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Posts Tagged ‘Drugs’

The Last First Kiss

It was in her apartment,
that cradle of art
and of error
that a first kiss peeled
like wall paper
in hot wet summer.
We got to like that sticky
feeling
because it blurred where
we started and each other began.

The television was too evasive
so we turned to your phonograph.
The record skipped
so we turned on the radio.
The commercials advertised
nail painting and nihilism
so we turned to speak
to each other.

Stop smoking pot and kiss me.
You think you’re better than being stoned?
I just want to taste your lips.
You can in five minutes.
That illusive set of images….
that groove that keeps skipping….
those naked nails….
what followed was silence
and the sound of footsteps leaving.

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I

Smoke, like that from a gun,
Ascends from her lip toward
A lazy whirring ceiling fan.
Her hemp colored dreadlocks run
Around giant headphones and forward
over naked breasts. In her hand
The cause: A bone. The scepter of the queen
(she is so because she shares something with beauty)
Like the contrast of her skin and the green
carpet. The gentle wind compliments her nudity.

Her Bishop enters through the fire escape
Having made his way to the seventh floor
A zip lock bag with word secured
He pauses to worship the landscape.
Her stone eyes lie behind resin colored shades
A pile of ash is pooled beneath her finger tips
As if the gravediggers had stayed
to dig their hole beside her hips.
The holy man tossed the bag on to the green
and waited for his silent queen to imbibe the good word.

II

Things were not simple in the kingdom
A battle of black and white replaced
By colors unimagined. A tear pools in her eye.
What unholy movement brought her to this place
A place for fools and pawns to die.
She felt their souls exiting them.
Another inhale, another word – no reply from the muses.

The Delphic signals curled as they rose
with feminine curves and tragic catharsis
that removed every desire save one alone –
the one the muses love the most
She sips from her scepter of bone
and still her hunger grows and grows
her whispers feeble, “send for my drone”.

III

She hasn’t come in so long
Locked in his castle, his prison, his cave
He waits. He waits for her to call.
His thoughts surrounding him,
He wrote them on the wall when she had gone.
Half open books littered his conclave
epics and tragedies, eulogies and hymns. 
All tragedies, all eulogies, all hymns.
to keep his mind, to keep his mind in check.

Madness was his only lover now, it was her that built the wall
built the wall around. He was useless when he wasn’t in use
and it sickened him. It bore a pit – a grave – into his stomach.
He would be unimportant – if she didn’t need him. Need him like air, or water.
Yet her need enslaved him. Cut him, shackled him, maddened him.
He longed for the smoky taste of her lips, and her soulful hexagon eyes.

IV

It was then that he felt the Bishop’s hand on his shoulder.
Human contact removed him from his castle
If only to push him down its winding staircase.
His small one bedroom apartment smelt of tobacco
and accepted no light in. It throbbed like a womb
A living breathing cave. Yet its drab wallpaper gave no illusion that it was natural.

The blinding bright light of the queen’s empty room
struck the drone with such unbearable pain
that he was forced to kneel. The green floor was warm from the sun.
Her naked stomach would rise and fall with each breath.
Inhale words. Exhale thoughts. The ceiling fan silently spinning.
The drone blindly crawled the high terrain
toward his prize. A queen desperate for the winning.

V

She drags, she drags, she drags the bone.
He places his lips on hers. Communication
evolves from ashes and breath. Smoke leaks from a kiss
a kiss leaks from the mind. He tastes her philosophy,
and feels the raise and fall that creates it as her bare stomach
shifts between his legs. For a brief moment their is stasis,
a tranquility of sorts, but an uneasy tranquility.

The Bishop removes the drones shirt
allowing his green eyes to observe his scarred back.
Years of being locked within his mind left him pale as a ghost
the same color as the tendrils of smoke.
This meeting had become more intense and more violent than most
the queen had awoken in fury. Her fingernails leave a track
of open flesh on his sides. But the drone continued.
Music pounds through her headphones and into him.

VI

Through closed eyes his fingers groped her coiled hair
eventually stumbling upon a chord, thin and black,
running back, back, back, into the other room. The music.
Sudden anger, jealousy, and weakness surged
as he pulled it from its jack.
Her eyes opened to reveal her hexagonal pupils
and with a single motion the madness, jealous of the new lover
took the chord and wrapped, wrapped, wrapped her neck.

The last smoke rose to be inhaled. All was silence
except the sound of the ceiling fan. Whirring.
Anger so quickly burned became remorse.
“Kill me. I have no more use.”
“Be still my child” The Bishop replied. Having seen the violence
he responded in kind. Taking the chord still around the queen
and tied it tight around his breathing’s source.

VII

“Such is man – an oppressive mystery
with a hunger for flaws. Unworthy of both
love and hate. His achievements know no limits
or goals. Only accepting a chosen slavery,
and who would sooner kill than to envy or want.
Man, the vessel of potential, a natural tool
for both angel and demon.
Pray now for salvation and repent
for desire will strip these thoughts from your mind
until too late comes your piteous prayers.”

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