Poems
by Fabrice B.
Poussin
Acid Campfire
It might be Tuesday in the midst of June
a calendar droops from a rusty tack
confused in its crumbling sepia tones
they can’t quite recall wo placed it there
or when, yet they have a vague impression
of a silhouette similar to theirs, decades before.
Someone set fire to a desk in the living room
to make a feast reminiscent of their teens
when they escaped to the dark forest
and sat around the makeshift hearth as magicians
when their dreams were still puerile
they could laugh without retribution.
It may have been twenty years ago or perhaps one
they have not ventured to the streets in ages
subdued by an existence without imagination
they slouch in boneless bodies
glassy eyes into landscapes no one else can perceive
they might well become part of the wooden floor.
They are five, perhaps twenty without a will
to stand or change the channels on the antique screen
they did laundry once and left it to rot
it was weeks ago, should they ask the neighbors?
but swimming through inches of dirt
wallowing in remnants of forgotten orgies they lay.
Someday their abode will implode
for a mistake under the expected influence
all who have survived will finally find a brutal end
in the flames of oddly concocted hallucinations
for a life without debt in a pricey world
too weak to face the humility of decent days.
Beauty Masks
Beloved child she stumbled on a limelight stage
wearing heels made for a mother
cheered on by strange adults with fancy cameras
she pursed lips in what she thought a smile.
Frail legs swayed with newly found pain
hoses, mascara, and other devices
prescribed by an ambitious manager
she is six, might as well be twenty.
She traveled many ages and numerous cities
on luxury transport and first line air
sniffing caviar, Havanas, and cocaine
forms preserved by chemicals and a little touch up.
She recalls those days when it felt so good
to show angular curves bathed in two pieces
of thousand-dollar fabrics per inch
before the party to celebrate her twenties.
A monument now she feels nothing
under the artificial layers tailored for a future
walking to cheer on her replacements
so artificial the mirror reflects a stranger.
It has been many visits to the sterile rooms
under bright lights again and silent walls
as she tried to recover a youth not her own
and succeeded so in looking like another’s ghost.
Still Failing
Gazing upon the line in the sky, he wishes to capture signs
words upon the azure nebulae of forgotten eternity
if only a gentle storm would form in the hours’ heat.
Then perhaps in a voice of many echoes he would claim
to the depth of infinite galaxies a final message
in the accents of vanished tales fiery tragedies.
Inhaling the hues of his domain recalling a renaissance
with dense blues swarming greens and devilish reds
to create in the sphere a masterpiece of melodious airs.
Madly grabbing at ghosts of past aromas swirling
he is a twirling dervish approaching a troublesome trance
as hopes the size of quanta vanish in a cruel tease.
He wants to taste the pearls of the heavenly nectar
swallow this concoction of undecipherable signals
running to the invasion of a threatening enemy.
Begging for an ultimate prompt he falls to the brazen ground
genuflecting in a humblest prayer captured by deathly silence
never to be revealed the key to her magical riddle.
What if?
Leaning upon the crannied wall of the castle
he observes the stranger who crosses the bridge
light as air in her long summer dress.
and he wonders what if?
Fearful to approach this lady above the clouds
might he once even dare utter her name
as she continues her noble steps
unaware of the eyes attached to her motion.
But what if she knew of him all along
and dreamed as he did of a few stolen moments
under the watchful eye of the guards
engaged to spread rumors and crush children’s fantasies.
Perhaps he should scream her name
see it carried with a gentle breeze
to deposit a light kiss on her crimson cheek
perhaps then she would turn to him and smile.
When a Woman
The days on the beach resonate still
and I am transported to the fiery sands
of a riviera made of near accurate imitations
waiting for the sun to etch a new hue upon my skin.
Still a child I threw this awkward shell into the salt
thick waters that took me away to the horizon
enveloped me in a tenderness I did not know
I thought I might awaken in another land.
School years come back to haunt my young bones
with the vengeance of so many refusals
when I sat in the front row and dreamed
of illicit embraces in emptied hallways filled with ice.
I knew soon it would be a suit I would boast
fashioning shapes yet strange to my breaths
and gazes would fall upon me as if to claim
every one of those moments I had thought mine.
As all do I fell for the charm of so many a knight
riding high on a roaring stallion
to sweep me up and take me to his realm
and serve as I had read little girls must.
Often facing the tall mirror in my lonely room
I wondered what had happened to this puerile body
when I thought I could be equal in passion
give as I might receive and forget my assigned role.
It is too late now as I gather the memories
images of many ages in sepia tones
wrinkles in time as they may be on the skin
feminine then now forgotten.
