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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.




a line, (a short blue one)



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.




a line, (a short blue one)



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. 




a line, (a short blue one)



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.




a line, (a short blue one)



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.



a line, (a blue one)


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