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Saturday, April 23, 2022

Regrets to Come

 
—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. 
 
 
 

 
 
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. 
 
 
 

 
 
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
 
 
 
Rp Verlaine
 








 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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