—Poetry by Rp Verlaine, New York, NY
—Public Domain Visuals
LOVE’S BRUTAL HANDS ON THE CLOCK
She has others
far more useful
because at the age
of 25 and I far older,
she believes she should
take no risks, or worse,
be played like
a tourist
in any wild city
for the first time.
Which is fair, I guess,
but when younger
I would've flicked
her off like an
ant off my arm
to the sky
and find another
the same night.
But now I just
want her sprawled
naked like she is
over my bed
after sex.
A smile coming
from that face
sweeter than any
wine Achilles knew
after victory.
Letting me look
into eyes I
could stare at
long enough
for regrets when
she leaves without
a scar on her soul,
a tear on her face,
or regrets to come
that will bury me.
She has others
far more useful
because at the age
of 25 and I far older,
she believes she should
take no risks, or worse,
be played like
a tourist
in any wild city
for the first time.
Which is fair, I guess,
but when younger
I would've flicked
her off like an
ant off my arm
to the sky
and find another
the same night.
But now I just
want her sprawled
naked like she is
over my bed
after sex.
A smile coming
from that face
sweeter than any
wine Achilles knew
after victory.
Letting me look
into eyes I
could stare at
long enough
for regrets when
she leaves without
a scar on her soul,
a tear on her face,
or regrets to come
that will bury me.
WHEN 3 POETS IN A ROW
In the East Village
south of ten pm,
write poems
about cats and the whims
of parakeets.
It’s high time to leave.
I usually stay to the end,
but my ears are red
with boredom.
The poems weren't just dull,
they were paint-by-number
atrocities that would have
fouled a garbage bin.
Two blocks down I find a bar,
put a C-note down,
get unwanted attention
of a few, but a wiry
cute Black girl with
glasses sits next to me,
asks for vodka straight.
A grad student, she tells me.
Four shots later we
are in a dank bathroom.
With a small smile
she unzips me
and opens her mouth
to... just as my phone rings,
with unsteady hand
I nearly drop my phone
in the toilet while turning it off
and she takes me in her mouth.
The girl has skills,
she's better than good.
Bobbing her head
to an unknown rhythm,
somehow her glasses stay on.
I shoot a steam of white
to the wall where it says.
God Is Coming soon!
She leaves the stall,
returns to the bar to pick
a few bills from my change.
The bartender sees, yet doesn’t,
then she sits with someone else.
I put a comb through my hair,
nodding to her as I leave
feeling too raw to be human.
Ahead I see the train station,
near many false but pretty lights,
Christmas just a few days away.
In the East Village
south of ten pm,
write poems
about cats and the whims
of parakeets.
It’s high time to leave.
I usually stay to the end,
but my ears are red
with boredom.
The poems weren't just dull,
they were paint-by-number
atrocities that would have
fouled a garbage bin.
Two blocks down I find a bar,
put a C-note down,
get unwanted attention
of a few, but a wiry
cute Black girl with
glasses sits next to me,
asks for vodka straight.
A grad student, she tells me.
Four shots later we
are in a dank bathroom.
With a small smile
she unzips me
and opens her mouth
to... just as my phone rings,
with unsteady hand
I nearly drop my phone
in the toilet while turning it off
and she takes me in her mouth.
The girl has skills,
she's better than good.
Bobbing her head
to an unknown rhythm,
somehow her glasses stay on.
I shoot a steam of white
to the wall where it says.
God Is Coming soon!
She leaves the stall,
returns to the bar to pick
a few bills from my change.
The bartender sees, yet doesn’t,
then she sits with someone else.
I put a comb through my hair,
nodding to her as I leave
feeling too raw to be human.
Ahead I see the train station,
near many false but pretty lights,
Christmas just a few days away.
HIGH AS HELL
On our backs,
looking at the tops
of the trees.
Daylight dwindling
like coins in a
pauper's purse
that hunger steals.
I am 16 and she is 18.
Our breathes,
mad butterflies
escaping our lips
to return by echoing
off each other.
The bird formations
above, we see
differently.
I see triangles,
she sees squares
from our hidden alcove.
We smoke our last joint,
write our names in the wind,
my virginity a memory.
________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Love is the answer, but while you are waiting for the answer, sex raises some pretty good questions.
—Woody Allen
________________________
Today we have a new poet visiting Medusa’s Kitchen, Rp Verlaine, a retired English teacher living in NYC, who has an MFA in creative writing from City College. He has several collections of poetry, including Femme Fatales Movie Starlets & Rockers (2018) and Lies From The Autobiography 1-3 (2018-2020). Rp’s work has been featured in Punk Noir, Ygdrasil, and Runcible Spoon. Welcome to the Kitchen, Rp, and don’t be a stranger!
_________________________
—Medusa
On our backs,
looking at the tops
of the trees.
Daylight dwindling
like coins in a
pauper's purse
that hunger steals.
I am 16 and she is 18.
Our breathes,
mad butterflies
escaping our lips
to return by echoing
off each other.
The bird formations
above, we see
differently.
I see triangles,
she sees squares
from our hidden alcove.
We smoke our last joint,
write our names in the wind,
my virginity a memory.
________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Love is the answer, but while you are waiting for the answer, sex raises some pretty good questions.
—Woody Allen
________________________
Today we have a new poet visiting Medusa’s Kitchen, Rp Verlaine, a retired English teacher living in NYC, who has an MFA in creative writing from City College. He has several collections of poetry, including Femme Fatales Movie Starlets & Rockers (2018) and Lies From The Autobiography 1-3 (2018-2020). Rp’s work has been featured in Punk Noir, Ygdrasil, and Runcible Spoon. Welcome to the Kitchen, Rp, and don’t be a stranger!
_________________________
—Medusa
Rp Verlaine
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
