Volume One, Number
Ten
July
2010
Dark Lady Poetry is an online literary magazine,
with a focus on poetry. With an eclectic taste, anything
goes, and we encourage up and coming writers in their
pursuit to be read. Good words are always
appreciated.
July
is a great American month of relaxation, old school jams,
lemonade and barbeques. In the haze of heat, and drowsy
afternoons, July is a great time to relax and enjoy reminiscing
of all the moments leading up to the blissful now. That is what
Number Ten is all about, fondly pondering on the words that
have shaped all we have become (while sipping on a Margarita,
of course). This issue features writers previously published
withDark
Lady, all of whom have had
a profound impact on the creation of the
magazine.
This issue features:
Joseph Fonseca
Lola Nation
Ivy Torres aka Hedra
Helix
Broadie
Thornton
Amber
Victoria Tudor
Enjoy.
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
Id
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
Sadly,
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.
Ivy
Torres aka Hedra
Helix
Living
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
thinking,
ghost,
smog,
fire
?
but it laid its soft finger on my
cheek.
drained my ugly
memories,
and each nightmare
right out
of my
skin.
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
above
the ground
toes pointed home
suit types,
friends,
each eyes'
black eggs
glinting back a reflection of the
horizon.
in the sky
a matching black-hole
sun,
blazing
a red fire engine
wrecked
beached parallel in the
yard
the street run through
with giant dogs
wolves
silent
intent
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,
senseless,
experiencing the world
passing careless through my
chest
whistling, married to a cold
breeze
flowing,
my eyes,
simple
openings,
make
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
just
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.
....
or
.....
Sip
and you will be
forever
Yes,
I taste your sweetness, but I
can't have you,
outside of
midnight
wishes
and open eyed dreams.
Elaborate,
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,
always
to preserve us while we
submerge.
My energy is storing.
Strong.
Making me off balance,
internal shiftings, of
rigorous challenge.
Perfect O.
We struggle or
immerse.
in envy.
Confusion
and
bandaged pride,
bubbling
on lost friendships, wasted on
silliness,
biting lost syllables
’cus you quiver on the
outside.
Shake,
shiver,
c'mon, get it over
with.
Fuck
to
let the magic
in,
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,
wondering
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.
Broadie
Thornton
Wearing
“That’ll be three thousand dollars and
sixty-four cents, Mr. Rowan,” said the Asian clerk with the
empty smile. “Cash or check?”
“Visa,” said Mr. Rowan.
The
clerk smiled and slid black plastic, the right way, at the
right speed.
Mr.
Rowan made a soft clap. The tall, pale manservant stood to the
right of the door of Bloomingdale’s, wearing a simple two-piece
suit with no visible buttons. Without preamble, he strode to
his master’s side and began to pull the latest wardrobe
injection into his long, monkey-like embrace.
Moments later, Mr. Rowan’s most impressive
wad of closet stuffing yet, was bundled into the trunk of a
silver stretch limo on the curb in front, and hauled away
beneath the characteristically schizophrenic traffic lights of
Manhattan.
“I
am how I dress, Jeeves,” said Mr. Rowan. With that, he pulled
on a black teddy bordered with kinky lace, and smiled into the
large vanity mirror in his bedroom wall. He shifted from
foot to foot, searching for the perfect angle. The image in the
mirror aped his movement. "Today,” Mr. Rowan giggled, “I’m
decked out as a high-priced delight.” Tossing his head, along
with the brand new, jet black, thousand dollar wig on top of
it, he grinned into the mirror. “I wonder what the filthy johns
on 125th are paying for this sort of class, this time of
year.”
The
manservant remained as impassive as ever. He had learned ten
years previous, that it didn’t do much good to question the
Master’s sense of style. “Very good, Sir. Are we taking the
Seville tonight, or is Sir more in the mood for a less smooth
journey? The Ferrari Formula One, perhaps?”
Mr.
Rowan laughed and laid his palms atop the teddy’s breast
pockets. “I think I would rather have a new friend in the
drawing room instead of in a cheap, roach infested hovel
tonight, Jeeves.”
Jeeves. The manservant’s actual name was
Warton, but he had learned ten years previous that it was
better to simply allow the Master to call him whatever caught
his fancy on any particular day. Or moment. Things went
smoother that way.
“Very well, Sir. I will prepare the drawing
room bath.”
“The
john first, Jeeves. I’ll prepare the bath. Besides, you always
forget to add the Clorox, and I’ve got to say, that just takes
all the fun out of riling the vermin up.”
“Very well, Sir.”
A
week later, Mr. Rowan became a pirate. A bright city night
passed, and when morning came, two fancy lofts had been slashed
to ribbons by a broadsword and befouled by great gobs of human
feces, that covered the walls like new coats of
paint.
Two
nights after that, he transformed himself into a football
player. An ancient high society woman in fox furs paid for his
fun, when her left knee exploded like a pinecone in the heart
of a blazing campfire...under the football player’s sudden
assault.
Six
nights after that, he morphed into a biologist. A stray mongrel
lost its right hind leg to the perversions of dark scientific
discovery.
A
day later, Jeeves, since he had no choice but to play along
with the Master’s transformations, (it was there in the job
description, in great BOLD print) ran through the large mansion
in abject terror, an old rifle in his right hand, a kerosene
powered lantern in his left. The serial killer that the Master
had become seemed lost in a tide of confusion and madness,
though this illusion was tinged with an insanely bright species
of lucid joy.
“Come to me, Jeeves!” he screamed, his words
echoing up and down the halls of the vast old mansion. “Give me
your neck to cut, and I’ll give you a raise!
Jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeves!”
The
manservant barely managed to escape this particular game with
his life. He did so by bringing a rare Japanese vase down on
the Master’s head from the within the shadows of the darkened
building. “All lights off, Jeeves,” the Master had whispered as
he stared upon his collection of African weapons before the
start of the game. “This can’t be fun without darkness.” The
Master didn’t fully recover from the blow to his skull for
three days.
A
month after that, he made himself into a poor drunk vagrant.
Bottles covered the floor of the food court within the local
Mini Mall the next morning.
It
went on like this for fifteen more years. Until, one overcast
day, in the festering bowels of east Brooklyn, Mr. Rowan died
in a battered suit of medieval armor. Brought down by a hail of
very modern armor-piercing bullets, his final words were, “For
Her Black Majesty, you bastards!”
Jeeves, saddened beyond his own belief,
buried the Master in a navy-blue uniform.
The
Master’s nephew, William Phelps III, being next in the family
line, inherited the family fortune.
Jeeves gave himself a week off: to purge the
former Master from his heart and soul.
William first came to him in a shiny black
wetsuit and thick goggles. Jeeves had managed to bury himself
up to the crown of his head in Wall Street black and white, a
cup of black coffee on the table in front of him, and a half
eaten doughnut on a saucer beside the cup of coffee. A small
voice bled through Wall Street words and found its way to his
ear.
“Jeeves, I feel like Jacques
Cousteau.”
Ten
years old. The boy, the Master, idolized the old depth
explorer.
“The
yacht will take us to the Marianas Trench, won’t it, Jeeves? It
will, won’t it?” said the boy, the Master, his brown eyes
ablaze beneath the goggles that sat upon his smooth, dark
forehead.
“Yes, Sir. It will," said
Jeeves.
Amber
Victoria Tudor
A Song
Standing
With the shadow
Of
Orpheus
He was
Weaned on
Muses milk
Let me be
The Nymph
That sways
To the
Sweet sound
Of Spheres
Surrounded by
Celestial synesthesia
I could be
The apparition
Saved
A captivated
Eurydice
Graciously Salvaged
With a lyric call
A Classic
Delicacy
And
Through his
Fingers
Touching Grace
Hades
Would
Let me go
Mammon is
Their Father
I’ll name my
daughter Silver
My son,
Gold
Eternity will
shimmer
Like spectrums in
summer
Dreams sparkling
down
White
walls
Sparing any
unnecessary
End
Poetry will play
in gardens
Dazzled with
raspberries
And roses without
thorns
The days of
stopped time
Will
stop
While whimsical
air
Spreads
seeds
In places never
known
Uncertainty has
been a Master
Where slaves are
rarely born
But
This will cease in
Whispers
Hope is never
found in pockets
(Previously in Issue
#1)
One More
Letter
Just press
pressure
Dance
play
press
press harder
just one more letter
you infinite
alphabet
press
When you miss
eyes that
move like mirrors
press
One more letter
press
press the letters
and
send
Leo
A
man
Among the
Kings of
Your kind
Tempestuous
Felines
Alluring
Leos
Wanton in
Security
This is your
Mortal
Flaw
Amongst these
Cats
Those
Who know
Their destiny
Unabashed
Of Who
They are
Without being
Cankered by
The need of
Validation
Game
These
Are the
Men of
Fixed Fire
Who
Always take
the Crown
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