—Poetry by Rp Verlaine, New York, NY
—Photos by Rp Verlaine
DESIRE’S LARCENY
In a four-
star hotel
the rough trade
pick-up
remains
alluring even
amusing but
comes with a
price soon
discovered
while removing
her clothes and mine.
With inquisitive near-
feral eyes
lit by the fire
of a madness
I've seen before
that miss not
a thing now
scanning room...
for what she
while I sleep
can steal
later.
In a four-
star hotel
the rough trade
pick-up
remains
alluring even
amusing but
comes with a
price soon
discovered
while removing
her clothes and mine.
With inquisitive near-
feral eyes
lit by the fire
of a madness
I've seen before
that miss not
a thing now
scanning room...
for what she
while I sleep
can steal
later.
ANASTASIA 2
Her green eyes
are enough to trap
you where.
She screams
her love half
dimly aware
An echo’s
needs to breathe
or it’s a canceled check.
Where Anastasia
sees right thru me
until she’s gone.
Long enough
to return
with more lies.
I bury by
the dozen
unable to decide
if such truths
are a fable or
a myth.
For she knows
It's she alone that
I dream with.
Her green eyes
are enough to trap
you where.
She screams
her love half
dimly aware
An echo’s
needs to breathe
or it’s a canceled check.
Where Anastasia
sees right thru me
until she’s gone.
Long enough
to return
with more lies.
I bury by
the dozen
unable to decide
if such truths
are a fable or
a myth.
For she knows
It's she alone that
I dream with.
A NEW INDULGENCE
She tells me
she has a negative
self image while
looking in mirror.
A model,
unlike her photo I
wonder how revealing
what she says is.
No questions
is her mantra
telling me she has no past.
To find the
ephemeral as our bodies
touch for keeps.
During sex
“go deep inside me
leave scars,”
she whispers.
Repeated over
lost days that scan
like fast-forwarded images
hinting of progress.
As we grow closer
our lapsed boundaries
forgotten behind us.
Until 2 used syringes
I find in her purse
ends everything.
____________________
WHEN COMMON SENSE
AND THE IMPOSSIBLE
dance separately upon
choices you’re given
with only a blindfold,
thirst, or hunger
to guide you…
The odds random as
ducks in a pond
shot for lunch
will seldom be beckoning
with welcome.
We walk from the bar
to where we just met
a few hours before.
But she opens her door
to pause, or reconsider
the new tattoo in my soul
that says Less Reason
To Live Than Most
which I hope
she doesn’t see.
And rolling
the dice with me
on love again
she says, come in.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind. Nor hath love's mind of any judgment taste; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste: And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd.
―William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Rp Verlaine for his poetry this morning, all the way from the Right Coast, and thanks for the photos he sent us to go with it!
She tells me
she has a negative
self image while
looking in mirror.
A model,
unlike her photo I
wonder how revealing
what she says is.
No questions
is her mantra
telling me she has no past.
To find the
ephemeral as our bodies
touch for keeps.
During sex
“go deep inside me
leave scars,”
she whispers.
Repeated over
lost days that scan
like fast-forwarded images
hinting of progress.
As we grow closer
our lapsed boundaries
forgotten behind us.
Until 2 used syringes
I find in her purse
ends everything.
____________________
WHEN COMMON SENSE
AND THE IMPOSSIBLE
dance separately upon
choices you’re given
with only a blindfold,
thirst, or hunger
to guide you…
The odds random as
ducks in a pond
shot for lunch
will seldom be beckoning
with welcome.
We walk from the bar
to where we just met
a few hours before.
But she opens her door
to pause, or reconsider
the new tattoo in my soul
that says Less Reason
To Live Than Most
which I hope
she doesn’t see.
And rolling
the dice with me
on love again
she says, come in.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind. Nor hath love's mind of any judgment taste; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste: And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd.
―William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Rp Verlaine for his poetry this morning, all the way from the Right Coast, and thanks for the photos he sent us to go with it!
Rp Verlaine
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
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!
her words flew by me
like butterflies~
