Haiku # 7

My chakras burnt out
today while having a jog.
My busted headlight.

My Furry Laser Beam Killer

sardine vault
vent cover
carrot hater
hair tie magician
mantel ballerina
broom slayer
string tamer
tuna demon
drowsy pirate

The Day That Cinderella Met the Pretty Man

She oftentimes regrets that day
that her slipper slid off- the day
that fast forwarded her into a stuffy
constricted marriage. Or, maybe, it’s not even
that. Maybe she regrets meeting the
other Prince after that. Well, he wasn’t
really a Prince, but a bard; he
made her feel things she never
felt before delivered by erotic
chorus lines. He was a trickster
in purple and seemed to be from
another planet and another time.
Well, he did tell her he was from
1999, while he fingered the lute
with such finesse that she barely
laughed at his passing joke.
She would find her own fingers later
in the cover of the night after her
husband resigned himself to his bed.
He was confused by her insistence of
wearing pants and shearing her locks.
She looked like a boy after all, now.
All she would say is that she was
waiting for the purple rain to come again.

Inspired by prompt here: http://magalyguerrero.com/beyond-the-ever-after-dark-poetry-for-the-cruellest-month-2016-day-11/ which was to ” Write a poem that describes what happened beyond one of the following “happily ever afters”. Yes, my Luvs, I want to know what came to pass after the ending.

“Cinderella”
“Jack and the Beanstalk”
“The Little Mermaid”
“Little Red Riding Hood”
“Rapunzel” “

Mother’s Tears are Part Lemon

She often lost her vital fluids
in lachrymal seas down her
face as acid drops pendent from the
tip of her nose, dropped onto
the sheets.
She would find her way out of her
cataplexy finally, wander into
the kitchen and find her sequestered
glass on the muculent countertop.
She would make a subdulcid lemon
drink to drown her stomach
and aid the progeniture of her cyclic
sour sadness once again.
And she would forget about the lemon estrepement
piling up in the kitchen, against
windows and walls waiting
to be washed.

Mother Earth’s Addictions by Proxy

Her body lies there mottled and bruised by
bottles and trash heaped over her
mounds that once offered sustenance.
Our forgotten mother- we have sold
her out for our quick addictions
to cheap blood spilling out
everywhere into the cracks.
She is hooded and glowing
sickly under the eyes
as her veins are exposed and open
to the forced injections of the junk
we are holding her hostage to.

But Mother is ferocious
waking up from these induced comas
from time to time;
blood backflowing out, boiling
while she rages and tries to shake
off the sickness and our addictions.
Fighting the shakes is hard, and
sometimes we need to let her shake
it all out.

Inspired by prompt over here: http://magalyguerrero.com/on-her-day-gaia-wails-dark-poetry-for-the-cruellest-month-2016-day-10/ to: “Write a poem from the point of view of Gaia; focus on pollution, natural resource depletion, climate change, loss of bio-diversity, deforestation”

Our Love is

Stale french bread
with moldy crust feeding
the roaches in the cupboards.
A treasure chest buried
underneath tons of mud
with fool’s gold inside.
A whale beached on a
highway, guts everywhere
with traffic stranded for hours.

It didn’t used to be that way.

It used to be a fire
raging through a night
barely contained.
An aloe plant surviving
the harshest soil and
growing despite being cut.
A favorite song that you
play on repeat every day
smiling for what seems like forever.

How to Avoid Elevator Conversation

Don’t look at any faces; the mirrored
walls give perfect opportunity to
fix your hair 80’s style in distorted mode as
you can then mumble to yourself fumbling
around in your purse or pockets, put
hand to ear pretending to make a phone
call to your mother and you fake ask
her if she managed to heat up her
macaroni and cheese without blowing up
her microwave this time, and you sound real
concerned. Peripheral vision tells you that the
person/thing in the elevator with you
(you don’t know who is in the elevator with
you because you haven’t looked at them yet)
is nodding a head shaped thing, and now
you’re fumbling with your jeans and unzip
them and zip them. Nobody is going
to talk to you at this point.
Just don’t get stuck in an elevator; people
will talk to anybody then.

The Persephone Syndrome

She pleads to her mother on
the telephone- across the wires that span
the oceans between them (and she would
walk the high wire to her if there was one.)
But her mother tells her this is the way
it’s going to be, and she just has to give
him more time, and she will get used to
married life.
But, she hates him already- his mannerisms
at the dinner table (she can’t stand the
smacking), the way he can’t even reverse
his crusty inside out socks before she
has to do the laundry, and the way he
can be entertained by a video game all night.
She feels like she is going to be sick again.
They already upped her Paxil about a month ago
when her husband came home to her cutting up
his favorite afghan his grandmother had made.
She just wishes Mother was there to wash her
hair tonight.
She tells her mother good night, hangs up the phone,
finds the scissors and decides it’s time
for a haircut.

This was inspired by a prompt here: http://magalyguerrero.com/fictitious-afflictions-symptoms-dark-poetry-for-the-cruellest-month-2016-day-8/ which was to Write a poem that illustrates the symptoms of a quirky made up illness. I actually googled “persephone syndrome” and I did find some results pertaining to Greek married women who had a strong mother attachment, and would become “neurotic, anxious, and/or depressed” in their marriages.

A Haiku for Spring

The green vivid softens paws
and falls and reminds
one to be buoyant again.

Apotemnophilia

It started when I was 10.
Billy was my best friend,
and I needed to feel what he felt.
The first time was a string wound
tightly round my right pinkie;
finally it blackened like a dead slug,
and the doctors couldn’t save it.
9 fingers could still push
Billy in his wheelchair, though.
When I was 20 I asked Billy
to chop off my arm with a chainsaw.
He wheeled up to the kitchen table-
my arm laid out like a dead tree branch,
but he couldn’t do it.
I had to break out the hacksaw
and Jim Beam.

This was inspired by this prompt here: http://magalyguerrero.com/of-peculiar-fun-and-me-dark-poetry-for-the-cruellest-month-2016-day-7/