Dark Lady Poetry - Volume One, Number One




Volume One, Number One

October 2009




Joseph Fonseca 

The American Century

Memories of a Life with the Whore of Babylon


Lola Nation    


Directions to Revolution Blvd


A.P. Chambers



Brandon Whitehead    



Amber Victoria Tudor

One More Letter






Joseph Fonseca



The American Century


The numbers make for cold calculations and lazy embraces
I'm in your house, on your couch, beached like a whale
You've been giving your kissing disease, again
Spread your keys among the guests of your party
One to the cellar, one to the front door, one for your safe
And one for your chastity chest
I watch the bottles of liquor drain to the carpet like seventies shag
Feet dancing, change jangling and the silence shattered
We're pretty ugly, but you make us beautiful
Just by the glancing touch of your glass fingers along our cheekbones
With all the grace of Gatsby giving in to the bullet
I can see it happening before the fire can suck away our air
You crumbling down the stairs of a black and white movie
Shimmering like a blood diamond, you're bleeding from the mouth
While they stare and gawk and check their watches
I've got your head in my lap like so many hearts in your purse
Mark one, powder and blush, sell the story to the tabloids
Sad Boy Falls For the Fallen Star of Hollywood
You don't make eye contact, the world looks at you
Even if it comes at the cost of your lungs, you'll have last laugh
Last affairs, last mistakes, last exits and last cigarettes
Your sweat has soaked through my pant legs before I realize
Even now you're still using me, a pillow for your death bed



Memories of a Life with the Whore of Babylon


It was the critical reception of your failed masterpiece that sent you crawling into my bed
The notices in the paper made promises you couldn't keep and analogies that didn't read right when taken out of context
I caught you on the phone with your mother, she of the ignorant persuasion, telling you about father and his brand new luxury sedan
You couldn't even look me in the eyes
"This is my life" you said and I thought, it had better be, because you're living it, getting it all stretched out in all the worst places
You won't forgive me my narcissism but all you want is a pretty boy on your arm
"Sugar, honey, sweetie," you say, giving me diabetes with your insincerities while trying so hard to make it through an entire evening with me and my empty bottle of wine
"Do you think?"  You ask me, leaving the holes in your inquiry for me to fill in with praise and adulation and other synonyms for your vanity's nourishment
I step out of your doorway so your silhouette can greet the world of flashing eyes looking to see how the puppet dances without her strings
But the tethers of your master never truly release you
Not as long as there is someone willing to write in their review, "Say what you will of her talent, but it cannot be denied, the camera sure loves her."




Lola Nation





I have met you in various traditions  
stroked you distinctly in belief  
that you were mystical  
till you lay quiet and meditate  
myself, unsatisfied

You associate yourself between  
mind and time  
Both lost  
as far as I am concerned

When catering to your degrees  
of separation, self-knowledge  
enacts itself in a lonely crazed world,  
calls lack of desire an epiphany  
near nirvana,  
with no understanding  
your here, my now  
offer no enlightenment

Trapped in your illusion  
a false dichotomy  
manifesting in mistakes  
defining physical attribution  
to consciousness,  
the skull of the plot to  
dim lit perspective

What does one do  
without a common denominator  
among society,  
the ultimate identity  
more powerful  
than area to zip codes?

Transcending between perceived reality  
to obnoxious insecure senses  
of forefront consciousness…

Your mental architecture lacks  
building blocks of psyche  
necessary to brick and mortar the  
reservoir of energy  
of all mental mechanics

still leading to one solemn place  
where we can share in the same  
primary skill of sex

I wonder who loved your mother more  
Was it the boy in you  
or the father who left for fear  
of not being man enough

How many years of repression did you suffer  
trying to uncover the super hero in your family  
for lack of father figure, society

Did it make you curious  
Unhappy, or confused?



Directions to Revolution Blvd.


He calls me late at night  
He’s drunk, I bet he’ll stay up  
Till the dirty sun makes its debut  
Over Tijuana  
puncturing the comfort  
in his line of sight

He tells me there’s something about me  
haunting him  
full of regret,  
he sloppily spills his remorse  
on the table  
Slurring promises  
Drifting away  
coming back again to say

“There’s something about you”

He says I know it’s true  
He’s not the only one  
To have confessed this  
He says he doesn’t know what it is  
Then, contradicts himself  
saying I deserve to know  
what it is that makes them all love me so  
He says it was my eyes  
Captivating, feline - brimming in the color of envy  
He over saturates the compliment  
By saying, he wants to be in me…  
My silence folds him again  
with regret,  
If I just go to Mexico,  
he promises, he’ll repay the debt.




A.P. Chambers





Meagre sightless Tiresias,
I dress him in his paper suit-
Of Ochre.
Fumbling, while he caresses his
Coffee into lather.

He tells me in his mystic tone,
“The milk has grown old, fetch another!”
I gaze into that face,
Spider webs stretch their way-
From his eyes and across his face
And down his arms.
They race to his long nailed fingers,
That stir his coffee, absent mindedly
With a silver spoon.

Knowing my eyes are on his face,

A voice: whispered in bitter chocolate,
“Please don’t stare at me with that look.
I have known it on every face.
The pity, the confusion.
The self importance, the delusion.
It won’t earn them a place at god’s side”

Eyes squinted; I look at him this being,
Who has been both man and woman.
He who has lived many generations,
With both fear and adoration.

“You know that I told him,
The little man in a powdered wig,
“Everyman will have fifteen minutes.”
And I was right for even he,
Turned that upon me.
To ensure that he had his own, for being-
Both a prophet and an illusion.”

To the vaunted heights of fame,
To the painful obscurity,
And I would do anything to rekindle
The fire that was so easy to put out.
I have read in magazines so full of
Glossy pictures, of fame without talent.
I could so easily take that just to see my
Name lit on the walls of tower blocks.

Knowing I am no good,
I am no good.

I go.

Knowing I am no good,
I am no good.

For I have watched Ophelia drown,
From a vantage point; of coffee cups and broken saucers.
She wailed and she thrashed.
Pretty pale features, eloquent but in gloom.

The only weight on my conscience then-
Was my plasticine children,

Whom I could crush with one hand,
Like the brave and the foolish.
Tiresias said they would die!

And for what?

A flag of, stripes gently starred!


The idea of people oppressed?

My dear Plasticine children,
I am no good,
I am no good.

Should I go for milk?
Perhaps I am not even able for that!

I am not able, nor am I any good!

And Tiresias waits, blind and cold.
His paper suit of stars and stripes,
Burning. His paper suit of Ochre fading.

And my Plasticine children in my sweaty palm,
Crushed like mulch. Like poor Ophelia, I watched drown.

I am not able.
I am no good.
He is no prophet.
And I am no god.

To the cavalcade,
To the cavalcade.

I lost them there,
To the fanfare and the drums,
Their jubilant pretty faces,
Sun burnt and scarred.

And Tiresias waits, blind and cold.
His paper suit of stars and stripes,
Singing hallelujah, hallelujah.
He has just been visited from god above.

Their jubilant and pretty faces,
Sun burnt and scarred-
I made them with my own hands,
From old bones and old lust.

My plasticine children for whom-
I was no good.

“...our affection for them grows faint,
Because we ourselves are dying.”

My children, scarred, deluded-
I lost them in confusion,
To war and the cavalcade moving.
Tiresias said I would lose them,
And to what?
Nothing that I myself couldn’t have concluded.

Pretty faces, I take them back.
Summer sun, sultry afternoon,
The beach, the sand, the sea so blue.
My plasticine children... 

And Tiresias waits, blind and cold.
His paper suit of stars and stripes,
He tells me in his mystic tone,
“The milk has grown old, fetch another!”
I gaze into that face,
Spider webs stretch their way-
From his eyes and across his face
And down his arms.
They race to his long nailed fingers,
That stir his coffee, absent mindedly
With a silver spoon.

I am not able.
I am no good.
He is no prophet.
And I am no god.




Brandon Whitehead 




See me sayin’ it like he would-
eyeballin’ you over a toke
on the stub of a Lucky Strike
hangin’ from that crocodile smile:

“If you took every page
out of every notebook
written by every poet
from the beginning
to the end of time
and stacked ‘em all,
right up to the moon-
all you’d get is a handful
of gray dust.”

Cause poetry
is Humphrey Bogart, baby-
500 feet tall,
grinnin’ like a wolf
while he slaps the sky
with a backhanded smack,
grabbing the heavens
by their fancy lapels
and shakin’ ‘em
till one by one
all the stars fall out.


Amber Victoria Tudor



 One More Letter


Just press
press harder
just one more letter
you infinite
When you miss
eyes that
move like mirrors
One more letter
press the letters




A man
Among the
Kings of
Your kind


Wanton in
This is your

Amongst these

Who know
Their destiny

Of Who
They are

Without being
Cankered by
The need of

Are the
Men of
Fixed Fire

Always take
the Crown