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For When I Rode on Your Shoulders
Don’t cast your sailboats to falling stars.
They’d end up like the words
typed in the spaces and the tears
on a broken charm bracelet.
Paint on the colors
with the fragments of the leaves
plucked from the nowhere place
too many people see.
Smudge all the perfection and the margins
suspended in limbo,
feeding off the trinkets of a fantasy
and the dreams of a nightmare.
When all the keys surge
with the windlass clinging
to the empty presence of doors,
remind your feet to fly.
It’s something they’ve always known.
Candles for Fireplaces Make me a wish.
Suspend me in the lines of score sheets,
in the jetsam and flotsam of the shadows of songs
that never got the chance
to be sung.
Bereave the flames from Persephone's care,
Houses dot the skirts of a mountain,
weak and cold cemented homes
connected to each other
like the pages in a book.
Tires are not decorations on roofs
but stones on paper bullets to keep them
The 7-year-old boy with the cigarette
and the old man with the umbrella cane,
read each other like everyday strangers-
unlike the air and the scent of glue
on rotting slippers.
Turn your radio to the station next door;
the news of the vendor using second-hand oil,
or to the valedictorian running the elevator.
The music exalts by the thousands
saving the short lifespan
of your dead batteries.
Sing Merry Christmas
with the recorded promises of political jingles
and half-meant carols of children
shining in the stage of their first-class begging.
I wish you a Happy New Year
without the wishes of the Happy and the New.
Rags for clothes in the sunlight,
street signs more painting than crayons.
Rain water distilled by bottles,
infants immediately born as adults
if thoughts could cryyou
are embedded like a blade.
a teaspoon in hot water
singeing pink lips,
losing all familiar tether.
in a solitary magic,
pulled raw from the space
of your knuckles
and your sorrows.
the unhidden mishaps
behind the bent clockwork,
underneath all questions
asked without a purpose.
in the artificial sunshine
cloaking every piece
of bones left untended
for a false north star.
the liquid gravel,
a foundation you built
of a hold
without a grip.
silhouettes and candles
absolving the fright,
of uncovering no further
a regret on no strings.
from the knots and the ashes,
the stronghold of a promise
in unsprung memories.
Sparrows and Train Tracks
She listens to the corpse of a wingbeat.
The stories of faraway people
etched on sea glass and flower petals,
like legends told for lullabies
printed with rose thorns
in the absence of paper.
Do the fingers of clock hands
hold the questions of children,
the way wine kisses guilt
and disposable wedding rings?
Handmade letters and gift-wrapped packages
resemble the music of a laughter
that isn't really there.
How many faces
are the reflections of a moment
dying in the second of a memory-
or the dances in the i love you's
that you never told me.
Write Mecounting the dust in the sunlight;
and dew drops on fallen leaves,
embrace the mist from waterfalls;
come name the stars with me.
forge your worries on sea shells;
go toss them near and far,
close the times of misses;
and dream for dreams that are.
Mind GamePick a card from the shuffled deck
Close your eyes and breathe in slow
Floating fingers as wind on grass
Stay very still as the trick unfolds
Shift the lucky handsome devil
Inches closer to Heart’s drumroll
What thrill it brings of great suspense
To choose beyond all fears unknown
Slow racing thoughts burn through the ore
An almost kiss on luscious bliss
Pound the fire on tempest’s froth
Swallow swift delicious sin
Swivel forth the ocean maze
Drifting pops of poison air
Cast the shadows of falling spades
Hide and seek with Joker’s wraith
Draw the lines on sightless traces
Trimming all the truths of queer
Tread far on nightmares cliffless
Count time on Deception’s grin
Ashes bathe the pilfered portrait
Bereft from a start of false
A million frames so duly conjured
In minds of no one’s hold
Lay the aces upon the table
Siren songs in sweet implore
On bloodlust playing secrets
Shall you crown thyself no more
Banquet InvitationQuite like a leaf ready to drop,
A tear of dew on a bowed grass blade,
Above the vastness of an indigo sky,
I raise my head and cease my sight.
Let the thin cold air fill me up,
Hawk and swallow in tangled wings,
Raindrops racing in pit and pat,
Soft in all lines they fall to trace.
A flurry of traffic strewn and sewn,
Colors painting dreams delayed,
Sordid tongues lose their quale,
Grand rare times of tranquil fray.
Beasts released from paper jails,
Tables set for the merry feast.
Wrathful thunders shame all cries,
As Luna herself surrenders night.
Flaunting lilies drown to bloom,
Succubus lips mute their songs,
This day begins without its dawn,
Shadows will leap impatient soon.
Unfinished follies of hide and seek,
Plays of bullets and faceless dice,
Embrace that lovely acid breath,
The time has come to write again.
When History UnwritesSeated upon a dank white wall,
No gold or diamond ornates its throne.
Staring all day at the same blank space,
Worlds apart from where it was first brought forth.
Strangers come and delight in awe,
Like loyal subjects frozen in place.
But while given the praise befitting a king,
Its thoughts are those of a peasant ignored.
For before it was priced with things of limit,
And carefully passed from hand to hand.
It was no more than its own cold throne,
Soiled and battered and worth no coin.
Its royalty was the dust of a room,
Spectators were but a passing mouse.
Back when glory meant a thin ray of light,
And the loveliest tune the patters of rain.
But as days passed in the forgotten room,
The corners screamed and not of hope.
An invisible clock ticked and tocked,
Prolonging an end to a story with none.
Pages flipped like a book that’s hollow,
Reality turned into a big cruel joke.
One wish was voiced for every night,
All curtains closed on this lonely plight.
But as the play lived on
A multitude of writers does a generation maketheir canvas was a stretch of road
a buzz of beny on an endless scroll
unknowing of history typing
with violent snapping keys
and a permanent imprint
we play with a page intangible
an audience far more unreachable
our legacy built hunched over screens
feeling like ants in an elephants footprint
but carving our path just the same
Secondhand MoonlightA dingy harem, scattered with junkies,
Stinking of lust and dusty Forget-Me-Nots
A black-veiled, crimson-lipped beauty
Night-haired and spacey-eyed
Purple painted nails laced with cigarette smoke
And a stubby cigarette laced with moonlight
Skulks to my side and burns a hand on my thigh
Age is creeping up her legs
And her panties smell of other men
And a bold-faced tattoo of last month's rent
Is stamped across her feverish forehead
Paper-thin desperation and two mouths to feed with a top hat on top
But the champagne tastes like honey and smells like jazz
You want to dance, Baby Girl?
So I jive with the Shadows and their Whores
Choking on secondhand moonlight
autumn's garden.it was autumn's beginning
when he scattered a combination of kisses
on my collarbones & chest
(the rusted gate to the crevice of my crux)
in a vain attempt to unlock the possibility of a love so parched,
like the terrain of his treachery,
that the sweat determined to fall down our backs
would be enough to quench his thirst -
as if each kiss would be enough to transform my entire core
into a garden of his own
to play in.
with each kiss
he planted flowers in my heart,
with roots down to the core of my being,
knowing of the dark clouds
pouring down the rain from my brain,
nourishing the fruits of his labour
in a cool whirl -
a breeze enough to ruffle even the smallest of feathers,
swirl the dead-most leaves,
& arouse the most dormant
even if each kiss was enough to transform the crumbling of gates
(like an autumn leaf
slow dancing its way to the ground
in a fear of being crushed
by the foot steps left on my heart),
the falling of summer's lust,
& the trembling of hands against t
How to pretend that you are a writer.Act like you're not
okay when you are and
that you are when you're
not. Run barefoot in
the snow. Stand out
in the rain for an hour
and think about anything
and everything you can.
Fall in love with
riddles and things that
aren't real and the
way some stars
shine. Cry when
you realize that life is
just one big sham and write
one hundred cliché poems
about it, and then write one
that you actually mean.
Use profanity. Be the
one fucking introvert
in a room full of
extroverts and scream
shit just for the fun of
it. Swallow every goddamn
metaphor you ever dreamed
of and write them down
with your own blood.
Eulogize your own
misery. Put a crown on
it and let it rule your
heart for six years before
you throw a coup d'etat
but just end up with
your head in a basket.
Ask yourself why
you feel so
empty and when
you forgot how to
laugh and where you
last left your smile and
who you even really are
anymore. Mean every word.
Don't cry at funerals. Cry
yourself to sleep every
other night for
Week to Weak.Week to Weak.
Why is it the week days go so slow?
But yet the weekends are over in an instant.
I have gotten so used to being constantly on the go,
That every part of my life has become routinely consistent.
Whenever I have a time slot that is vacantly free,
I feel as if I should be developing or preparing for something else.
I always feel as if there is somewhere else that I was meant to be.
I never take full advantage of the short intervals I have to myself.
I’ve had enough of the early mornings and the constant yawning.
Dreaming of over sleeping and then opening my eyes all of a sudden.
Even the usual serene sounds of the birds chirping have become haunting.
Every morning I wake up to my annoying alarm and tap the snooze button.
I work, wait and anticipate for the week to end.
Making hopeful plans to catch up with some old friends.
And before you know it Monday has dawned once again.
I wish the weekends had more days imbedded in-between them.
Rebellious FireCoals as white as snow
Burn within my darkest veins
As I watch the world...
Burst into flames.
A stranger walked up to me today...A man walked up to me and asked me for a cigarette… I told him I didn't smoke anymore, and he asked me why? ––I answered "because the person I used to smoke with, isn't around anymore", and he replied…"that's why I smoke."
A woman walked up to me and asked me for drugs, I replied "I have several in store…his eyes, his smile, his hands"…she whispered, "that's not a drug"…and I laughed as I said.. "if only you knew."
A child walked up to me today and asked me to play a game, I told them I was too tired to play games, i'd been playing for years, they replied…"then you must be a pro!", to which I said "yes…a pro at losing."
An old woman stared at me today, and I asked her…"is something wrong?" she answered "I was about to ask you the same question."
© Rocio Belinda Mendez
Frameworkshe tried to realign
her spine with vinylbenzene
like she could be a plaster girl &
elegant & automated despite her
she fashioned butterfly wings
out of worn newspaper &
donned plastic tiaras,
bit her silvery split
fingernails & told you,
threadbare girls don't shatter, love,
(they just disentangle).
FragileHow could something so fragile,
As the humble heart of a lover's longing,
Be so easily torn in twain?
Was it his desire to deal in danger,
When he first gazed upon your glance?
How could something so fragile,
As the sweet soul of a valentine's virtue,
Be so tragically annulled once again?
In his honour and humility for you he did hunger,
But never did you care or give into chance.
How could something so fragile,
As the flickering fire of a sweetheart's seduction,
Be so pathetically ruined in the rain?
His amorous advances are all but asunder,
With malice you've split his love with your lance.
If Only We Aged Like TreesTell me how many clinks
when you smile
with a grave’s peace borrowed.
The creaks of a swing,
and the shards of broken china,
sing your childhood riddles
on nights the storm would knock.
Stars belong to clouds,
just as fate is in love with time.
A box full of buttons
and a handful of sand,
count how long you kept your fingers crossed
from behind the pleats of your summer skirt
as we watched our thoughts set
with an imaginary sun.
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