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week of April 4 - 10, 2004



Kristina Marie Darling and William Mercer




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Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast
I'd Like to Bake Your Good | Stolen Mummies| Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town | Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
I'm a Jew, Are You
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Kristina Marie Darling
Natalya178@aol.com

Bio (auto)

My name is Kristina Marie Darling and I am a student at Washington University in St. Louis. My work has appeared or is forthcoming in such journals as Offerings, Freefall, The Neovictorian/Cochlea, The Mid-America Poetry Review, Poetry Motel, Parting Gifts, and 3 cup morning. I was a participant in the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop for Poetry in 2004 and was selected to attend again in 2005 for Poetry and Book Arts.

The following work is Copyright © 2005, and owned by Kristina Marie Darling and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Starlet


1.  Heroin[e]

 

The girl is

dressed in pink with feather

trim it is sectioned like

borealis in verifiable

cartography ---

At night she dreams of the little blue

            house on Grand where most have

                        wanted neon like rolling wires

from the ground in crushing struggles

            begging it becomes a morning train-way

                        calculations made

a blank of needless signage

                             auroras

                                          of diesel and THE JETS

                        it grips her like salvation once was Pasadena

                  static in the small gray room

            of half-lit Revlon & her thin overpass

     to the precise 1.3948 hrs peace

 


2.  Marilyn

 

BEHOLD!  It's death and blooming

roses; pink teacups

      from mother at an end;

they scathe each fallen chain-

link fence while you, the schoolboy,

watched her slither

through smoke and satin; are flawless

as you felt it like electric lights. The one you love

      has lit the stage; white teeth

gravitations

      of dust & shimmer.  Below her glitz

you wait with promise

                 like

            star-struck rhythm descend

the realms of broken

                        chords --- divinations

            of tequila

       stillness and fluorescent dawn.

 


3.  House of Fame

 

The sky begins to shift

            like razor-wire

in rigid half-light

            clouds cut through

their gray to dark

            windows and unsteady

street-signs, it's death

            and nightly resurrection.

On East 10th St. she has lived

            a life of Cherry Cola

with menthol slims.

 

     HOLLYWOOD 112 MILES

 

            The door is closed

                                           behind her.

She knows

                  something

            must happen.  Cold light

     is blazing through

     the synapse of her skin.


William Mercer
Modernmeliorism@aol.com

Bio

My name is William Mercer I am currently living in south Alabama and I am from Atlanta Georgia. I have been creatively writing since I was old enough to make sense of it. I write for myself and am interested to see if this is art or trash. i thinkk that it will evoke one or the other extreme from the reader. The reason I picked this poem to insert is because I recently wrote it and rarely go back to old poems and also because of the arrangement which is different from things I normally do. I hope that whoever reads it enjoys it.

The following work is Copyright © 2004, and owned by William Mercer and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Bathing

She saturates in superstition,
noxious to meliorism.
Sometime during our correlated
loneliness,
we stole one another's words
and smiled at the mirrored
deception.

Casual recollections, rush,
restricted,
into the deep corners of the
bathroom.
She smiles, a pure, crowded
kind of smile,
a night light whenever we're all
alone.

An irreversible hunger turns
lascivious and is never satisfied
only diluted.
Syllables crack the gray silence,
christening me with an itchy
impatience.
I'm wrapped around her
like the rushing white
of a raging river.

She tilts the blinds with a twist
an innocuous light escapes
the temporary dam,
brighter at first.

Adjectives melt like chocolate
outlining our fertile postures.
And everything is plural,
people and places
we never were that close.

So I run the bath water
waiting for her to remove
her clothes. Wait...
fidget...
Her vagina emancipates
the room,
blights me with shame.
The geometric shave of her
pubic hair reminds me
how clumsy I am.

I want to reach out,
grab her, almost hurt her
but I already know she
wouldn't feel that.

Besides,
I don't own a thing she
can take.
She enjoys reminding me
of this.
When my mood is too optimistic
for hers. When she is
teetering on the edge of her
own personal purgatory.

There are boundaries and
I'm drooling over them.
Just so she can taste...
feel the breeze before
the storm. Something less
tropical and more depressing
suits her just fine.

A smile doesn't always work,
I'm just a boy, just a little
boy staring at the buxom breasts,
smooth stomach, and lips
that taste nothing.
Jealousy taps on an adjacent window,
but I can't take my eyes
from her elastic sensibility.

My sweetest sympathies,
floating,
my deepest compassion
melty into multiples of plenty.
Drops of chemically cleansed
water gently entertains with
beads of sweat.

My conscious craves again
I hear nothing but the
superfluous whispers of
running water.

She turns the faucet
towards aphonics,
commas for toes exclamation
points everywhere else.
I think I can hear her skin
crying.
An adorning sob hiding behind
the driiiipping cadence.

Elastic circles breaking against
the curvaceous barriers that
make her a woman.

She hasn't asked yet,
she hasn't noticed my boyish
stare,
humid and voyeuristic,
swallowing her whole with
humungous sadistic pupils.

She asks with her eyes,
if you want to you can come closer,
explain your childish detriment
with stumbling hands and an'
over-active adams apple.
She leans back into the
penumbra of her brain.
Her heaven.

I don't have to ask
YES
she answers with the swinging
curve of her mouth.
The soap, barely bubbles below,
the oily calm of her body has
subdued its native reaction.

I can't become unenriched,
not like this,
not now.
Milky, white, porcelain breasts
sacrifice gravity before me,
baptizing my perversion.

I could fall to tiny pieces
of anticipation,
echo in shatters on this
cold floor.
Her knee breaks the surface,
taking silence,
feral droplets of water
run down the side of the tub
all the way to my feet.
I influenced it
as it mopes towards my
terrestrial awkwardness.
YES?
I can't as again.

My indecision is reflected
before me,
amidst a dying sun,
behind a gleaming question.

The water turns dolesome
with the monotony of exploring
all the ins and outs of her body,
cleansed and finalized with finesse.

A sigh! perhaps an ending,
the turbulence is almost over
and my feet are still dry.
Saliva thickens,
I remove my shirt
a weighted blink ensues.

The only resolution would
be to touch her, now, here,
because I could not imagine
being more in love somewhere
else,
With such an explicit bliss before
me.


A boy stands to the side completely
engulfed in the rapture of bilious beauty.
His final preparation the lubrication
of his lips. Everything is so dry outside
of her. Her presence is soaked heavy
and fatigued. He finds a place in her arms
forgetting everything squeezed from between.
And all he can say is
YES
Your just a boy?
YES

Death of a Mauve Bat! | Sinzibuckwud! | We Put Things In Our Mouths | A Man With No Teeth Serves Us Breakfast
I'd Like to Bake Your Good | Stolen Mummies| Brendan Constantine is My Kind of Town | Up Liberty's Skirt | Feeding Holy Cats | Mowing Fargo
I'm a Jew, Are You
| Lizard King of the Laundromat
| I Am My Own Orange County | Paris: It's The Cheese | Poetry Super Highway
Rick's Bookmarks |
Cobalt Poets | E-mail Rick | Upcoming Readings | Who The Hell Is Rick