Dark Lady Poetry - Ivy Torres




Ivy Torres aka Hedra Helix



with wild digits
unaware of
what's you

woke up wonderful
and the world went to kiss me,
took itself through the glass
past the blinds
crossed the bed.
i backed away
but it laid its soft finger on my cheek.
drained my ugly memories,
and each nightmare
right out
of my
made a leap like an african around the fire of my soul,
whispered break
screamed up
told me wait
advised see,
but i didn’t listen,
and i went straight to the evil three breaths in from heaven.
let it mutter in my genes
fingers deep within my skin.
sent my body slunking over to the window
bade my hand to yank back the shades.
outside in the yard
men drifting,
four feet
the ground
toes pointed home
suit types,
each eyes'
black eggs
glinting back a reflection of the horizon.
in the sky
a matching black-hole sun,
a red fire engine
beached parallel in the yard
the street run through
with giant dogs
and in their mouths little dogs
and in their mouths littler dogs
and in their mouths wiggling cats
and in their mouths fresh hearts
dripping gristle
draped in veins.
and i see they've enough to suffer the world.
and a rabid thought occurs,
and my hand climbs nervously
to where my eyes can't make themselves look.
. . .
i finger the new hole...
same ways I just did the old,
experiencing the world
passing careless through my chest
whistling, married to a cold breeze
my eyes,
the image of
eve clutching an apple core
made in
particles of mist
little bits of blood
swarming forms,
a mirage like hallucination,
an etch of sketch
of pale guilt and woman
that shivers on the palate
of the wind for a split second
to show me her stuff,
looks exactly like mine
just like..
before the current disrupts it,
{ {{ Poof! }} }
and i wake, twice baked, to
this day.





and you will be

I taste your sweetness, but I can't have you,
outside of midnight wishes
and open eyed dreams.

I set a fancy table,
spun from the fact that I don't get bored with you.
Set out with rustic, crusty, bread
and delicious orange cheeses.
Of course
our mind games are ritual with victuals
like red wine,
And its good
'cus we're balanced in winning.

We breathe in deeply,
to preserve us while we submerge.

My energy is storing.
Making me off balance,
internal shiftings, of
rigorous challenge.
Perfect O.
We struggle or immerse.
in envy.
bandaged pride,
on lost friendships, wasted on silliness,
biting lost syllables
’cus you quiver on the outside.
c'mon, get it over with.
let the magic
that bright selfishness of children.
tESTING life’s’' boundaries.

Beat around the bush, sure,
and then learn
to throw a stone at the window.

Ensure it's interesting.

When I appear in the glass...
I'll do the same.
Sighing, I'll say clearly,
wrought with a tremble in my voice,
do you mind much,
that my mind,
shifts all the fucking time,
from being sad, to being glad, loving the world, to hating that girl,
bastard tv screens and teenage dreams, the witch and the sun
and Jacks' magic beans.
To grow us a bean stalk to a wide and clear sky.
All in violent search for
The One :
to sit with, in desert cafes', sipping wine.
Or bundled in wool walking through the forest night, watching the retreat of light. Saying and understanding new thought in beautiful throat reverberation,
like song.
I know you're out there.

~O' Run away Moon to the edge of the Sun,
ride the Blue river to where you must go.~

We should hold hands, as we go down the slide.
Our laughs can mingle and relate to one another.
So we can remember
the smell and colors.
And remind each other later,
that the slide was red,
the sky was blue.

Your person, is like a balm to my soul.
When the world is a razor,
trying to cut me in two.




Storm season over, stooped they trek
the long dusty road, 
arms up, shielding eyes 
red of potato blight anyway,
drippy noses looking hewn of mushed together pieces of bread dipped in milk,
and you may not notice me
but I am one of them. 
And I am suffering.
I trudge, head bent.
Attention strictly kept to the corner of my mind still vividly alive. 
Whom I shuttle kernels of corn, 
edible flowers I pick covertly from the shoulders
I send all fat nutrition straight to it. 
I keep my hope dreaming there
heavy upon plump violet pillows,
fanned by exquisite long lashed women. 
I arrange it late dates with the lankiest of strange breathed boys, 
in olive groves grown thick in temporal wormholes where consequence looses all hold and my imagination can wallow and waft and keep its own in time, 
deliverance declined for the ruby heart of a moment, wild still, unquestioned. 
These boys transmuting into fine minded friends and fine sense of self. Clear memories of stance and pages and pages and books of inspired passage made during long nights when new talents are discovered, to be cemented the next morning in the brightness of the sun. 
Most days, while the body of me toils foot after foot in front of the other, this is the piece that waves me on, promising persistently, a way.
-Don’t know how it is I got so un-solid, really. 
Life’s sand slipping through my grasp once a fist grabbed from a beach of endless possibilities. It feels empty in my hand, 
just now. 
The holes in the world today, somehow winning.
And yet, 
I still see hope in tomorrows equilibrium.
I conjure little boys in blue, and little girls in pink.
Populate my landscapes drawing them clutching in both hands jars of herbs and spice that once rained from the tiny top holes turn to black shiny seed that when they touch the soil spring forth unquestioned fertility from lands unintended.
Surprise flowers x 7 arising in the nodes of the leaves folding forth from sinuous vines, bees buzzing in from far off lands coming to pollinate the fruits of my temporary sorrows -as I watch with stubborn pride, praying I recognize the yield.
I chew my lips until salty blood runs to flavor in flavors of yesterday the sustenance of my promised tomorrows, 
and I chase the freedom of my children skipping across their meadow 
my mind telling me we are set out as so,
“So do not give it up.”
and to follow.




Lizard Jerky



Lay down like a lizard in the desert 
belly-up on the pave 
sun above 
cars speeding down, 
refuse the water 
'cus yer crazy. 
I'll pick you up in a week 
an put you in my pocket 
where you'll promptly break in half. 
lizard jerky.





These days, past twilight, the tender tears do my walking if I need them to,
the sand between my toes
as magic -time travels my feet and then my body, to new years eve, when I was three and my father was lost in a canoe on the ocean.
Tender like young bamboo are
those baby memories of fear and then the next day, of picking bittersweet fruit from sidewalk trees and eating them anyway in smiles, cus' my pallet was different. My tongue making stranger fractions when wrestling words that sounded best on island breezes.
Little crabs my playmates
and the sound of the beach calling me home like a beacon
well trained on the taste, of seaside contemplation.
Cus', though I was a child
- I felt the water in my life.
One day they said "Say goodbye!"
So I waved, in my little girl style.
Quick as a plane travels I landed smack dab in the city.
Dreams of growing up needing rapid adjustment, as the serpentine winds of life folding over the before took me like jazz notes to somewhere deeper.
Where suddenly, I spoke with an accent.
You ask, then:
What happens to a prince married to a paupers daughter when they step out of the lime light and start to live? What happens to their child?
I’ll tell you:
Tears and tribulation, cold days in the sun.






Ivy Torres lives in Hawaii with her fiancé, two cats and two dogs. She is in the process of completing two novels and hopes to be shopping them very soon.