The spy

She sat in a railway station, silent,

one piece of baggage containing all of

her intricate, imperfect life – she was white 

as paper, skin like ice water, “you can’t

be bored dying in a dignified position;” any

sensitivity left dropping away as

do hairs off a comb.

 

A victor walked by, she thought, “what’s 

the matter, have you no religion… “

and then, a smiling copper – as if he knew

of her keeping a cupboard full of

alibis for all spying occasions, corked up

in old medicine bottles – she had no

proposition whatsoever on using a gun.

 

Sitting there, memories arriving as

do late trains – of when, as an

eight year old, skipped rope with half

a rope… of making someone bleed

regularly when she cocked the hammer,

rather as opening the flap of a tent

and stepping into the cold.

 

Of a nasty little man in a grubby mackintosh,

snuffling through pigeon holes looking

for her room key in a cheap hotel – peering 

through his spy glass in hopes of seeing clothing

draped over a chair – then dark alley waiting, one

round fired… she’ll be there awhile, not forever,

but a little while, holding her ticket home.

 

Copyright © 05/27/2014 Ð Ṝ Ƣ Ñeedle & Ŧhread®

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does not dance the fandango

“a mystical spell,” andrei said, “you want 
of me, thinking
 
about me?” “do you really, nina?”
 
she reached for his white lace shirt
as he pulled away
 
weakened fingers grabbed, one by 
one thread and buttons
 
flew through still, stale air, down
hallways of contempt
 
he managed to open the bedroom
door that stood in 
 
front of him, doorknob turned slowly
 
he turned slowly to see undisturbed 
silk sheets where they
 
once danced
danced once 
 
in front of a music band
wooden floor, worn
 
from the love of two moving
as art
 
her face painted with porcelain
beauty, bodies heated
 
now
 
she started crying, tears escaped down
her face, 
 
too quickly for his hand to catch, took
her in his uninviting arms
 
she wore a long white, silk dress,
embroidered lace
 
accompanied
 
not felt by him
feelings numb
 
“why did you lie to me, nina?”
 
a voice and footsteps crept up a 
walkway to her house
 
her lover opened one front entrance
like a cribcracker opened 
 
safes carved into walls behind 
oil canvases
 
painted with amateur colors
 
andrei drew his 5 shot pistol, top 
of  stairs, fired three times
 
arnost crumpled on carpet where
things are swept under
 
andrei checked, two bullets left,
she fumbled to lock
 
the bedroom door
 
a loud bang, bullet splintered wood
 
he entered
 
she was on her knees with embroidered 
lace covering her eyes
 
her tears
 
arms at her side as one does in
a coffin
 
“BANG!” blood splattered wall
 
smoking gun tightly clenched in 
gripped fingers
 
his body lay lifeless at her feet
 
does not dance the fandango…
 
 
 
Copyright © 05/04/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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the myths woven by us

reflect a splintered fragment like splintered glass 
in a mirrored rear-view
on a rusted car sitting in the woods abandoned
 
invented stories come out of our yawning abyss, 
from our minds, half asleep
 
the fluid movement of our words moves with 
unnerving ease, like wet 
paint dripping off a ‘wet paint’ sign
 
we get addicted to our thoughts like a drunk gets
addicted to an empty liquor bottle
 
we play out of tune like evaporated milk, 
yet we drink it
 
we play with others then toss them aside 
like glued labels on old sneakers,
 
to them, can’t have the pain without 
the pleasure
 
we look out of the corner of our eye 
like a blind cat looks around
a corner searching for blind dogs
 
we believe there is a light inside us 
surrounded by four stones,
 
the soul, the heart, passion, and belief,
 
yet we weave the myths 
with a needle  
and invisible thread,
 
but that’s like sewing a bullet into a revolver,
 
once the shot is fired, the damage is done
 
we have disclosed ourselves like 
water has disclosed 
itself to a crack in a dam
 
and then we try to put the water into 
a single cup and offer it 
to someone who’s drowned
 
we prey on other’s weaknesses 
like dust preys on a drought;
 
feathers once filled a small room,
 
paid a penalty for participating 
in child’s play
 
feathers float through stale air,
children grab as to catch,
 
much like myths woven
by them at 
some time in the future
 
when they realize their dreams can’t be touched,
much like the feathers
 
much like lost car keys to an abandoned, rusted car,
the wet paint no longer drips…
 
 
Copyright © 04/02/2013 Ðark Ṝoasted Ƣoetry®
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