Dark Lady Poetry - Volume One, Number Ten




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








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.


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.



Broadie Thornton






“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




With the shadow



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




A captivated



Graciously Salvaged

With a lyric call


A Classic





Through his



Touching Grace




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



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




This will cease in Whispers


Hope is never found in pockets





(Previously in Issue #1)

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