spaces tightly recede – samantha lucero

one of the last poems i might ever write.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

i’m unhurt here; deeply wrapped inside this ill-starred cell.

chaste of catching time in its seeping hoards
that worm, or unpolluted by the
lightless nature of breath in my
anemic boat

i can oar inside this fervid pulse where
i’m electrically prolonged
inside that silky wave
the wistful
scene i’ll dream
and dream again

where life unearths
or perhaps, i wince and the spaces
tightly recede

and though i sink into an oily red
womb of her fastenings
i won’t dream of an appalling life
when i hiccup or pirouette my shaping
limbs to arrive at this
eternal return

of what

none outside this narrow pool
can dream or know, i’ll dream;

put me back into that blood
that last drowsy warmth
of my eyes yawned shut
before the first scream.

to sleep and sleep and finally sleep!


Samantha Lucero writes at sixredseeds.

View original post

Advertisements

1.

[one of mine originally posted on SD. for some reason, the reblog is fucking up.]

giphy-2.gif

a city map is sewn in the scalp;
looped in the goat-milk, or spit out,
tongued in silky blades of stomped
down grass.

i’m crowned with high-pitched fingers
clenched in fur.
in octaves only shades can bear, i simmer
in their holy cradles.
i become the roughened corner of a mouth
grinning at its own joke.

there, the receding home in ranch-style polaroid’s of a dirty blond stranger and my mother squinting in the sun; some home not mine or yours.

ventricles, which
in a woman’s left grows tiny,
and in a man’s more supple.
i keep alive by milking goats.

some like lifelines, some like ulcers
the city streets are braided in my hair.

samantha lucero 2018 ©

 

la tristesse durera toujour

default.jpg

i was in a dirt hole or clasped on
a napping road-trip road.
palpitating thru the lines or bones
on the ground, or underneath.

i found her heart in a rat pile
flapping like loose mother-skin
grieving with the last milk oval
on the whelps tongue.

are above me, like you
in a circlet of whore-stars,
maniacal with
teeth for deep space.
a belligerent isolation embraces
me and i am born in bright black.

i stare into the sun and when i
shut my eyes, it winks back
and it will never leave.

my love was a thousand shells
in salt on earth. i was the killing jar.

the beat of sunflower wings
in cement initials.

 

samantha lucero 2018 ©

2.

88f4dc5f4be75d473b5aaa4bd143891f.jpg

where memory rusts, limp on a clunk of

dry land & dragging me through the sequins of a

small earth

i croak to the fractured window of a bone-white ford truck groaning down, shambling up a shaft of dreary road.

i, a silver figment or mislaid filament, a filigree wafting bare thru realms hot & rose-gold, loom where the skeleton of the truck is parked eternal: i see the rotting choir of burst leather spaces, vacant, on which the sun has dug its holes. little else remains within apart from remains; i’ve loped from one graveyard to the next.

840 minutes in a warehouses’ baking mouth bending metal out of men, where oil-dyed hands stain wonder-bread or stay-at-home wives’ necks, they used to make trucks like those. and like the one that was his daddy’s buried in that old garage. all he had was that truck

and all I have are his songs.

you’ll never feel young in your old cage—that’s old age

a cage.

and all you’ll have are songs.

samantha lucero 2018 ©


 

HOLLYWOOD HIGH – Collaboration – A.G. Diedericks & Samantha Lucero

a collab about the historical significance of the code of hammurabi.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

Heathers and jocks, flock together
You and I tethered to Glocks & black
leather
Clocks broken, shot
into a myopic future
We meditate on bloodlust
of a murdered adolescent reverie,
besotted with living forever
The colour of Mondays changed
when I tasted the insidious guile on
your lips; glossed in Carrie-red
you needn’t incentivize this perilous
heart of mine
for you I would cut off my misanthropic
parchment
and illuminate the dark matter
’cause all that I bleed
is you

coiling in a house where hymns burn
hair
damp or dirt, or fire walk with me.
daddy is a watershed in dallas, mommy
is a wire hanger bent out of shape.
the world is an open wound,
and i am the trace.
you are the knife and the wail.
the wide awake.
the boulevards red myths, sight and
sense,
names in squirming lights, and seeds
on the flashing ground.
west…

View original post 387 more words

the perfect marriage

tumblr_p07ldzGE5d1vokw53o1_500

i’ve evolved from spitfoam into hearth-iron ribs
trapped between septic fingers and lost doors.

one gummy eye used to be the rasp moon,
the other a varnished cloud.

i’ve created ants and snow in a womb
for licking, cloying death.

for freezing, for festering age,
years. rafts of web on web.

i scream in a locked room.
where only i am dreaming of being me.

to accumulate in wrinkles that are parenthesis
around your matchwood mouth or baby horns between
the swale of brow-felt.

the hole that gullets its teeth.


 

samantha lucero 2017 ©

time who kills – samantha lucero

SD work.

A Global Divergent Literary Collective

who kills, father time?

time who kills:
all things.
startling with the drip of a chrysalis stuck threading in a tapered night that once slurped on breast milk and sour bread. a man where clearwing moths have suckled in.
though he peals in fishnets, loud in a mouthy reservoir of silk,
cum is mud, and mud-worms next to a flaring wing, flowering on a spectral chin, making a seedling.
he’s supine underneath the antlers of his boney hands, he’s castrated
or perhaps submerged in the deepest pore of hell. his sons are the immaterial sky, the apathetic sea, the under-dark.
parents, handfuls of dirt, the bleeding ulcers inside the intestines of earth.

time who kills
father time, luxuriating in an oblong sludge, in chianti bottles marked vintage,
“vintage has to be over twenty-five years,” that cunt would squawk, “antique has to be over 100.”
where are the unwashed…

View original post 149 more words

hours 

tumblr_me28hcXL621qd3ucoo1_500

I see those mottled photos, ornate albums

of yesterdays yellow sun

Of swollen women, dream-like, in a lavender field.

They leash their arms around an oval-shape

becoming empty; the shape deflates, the air comes out like water.

It starts to breathe it’s own small breath in the shape of a person,

someday a man, a woman, sometimes swollen, sometimes

stiff, stark, or bleeding.

Seeing those photos one day,

your nose has memorized leather and tobacco flower.

for her, it’s dr.pepper, Disney on ice

the cotty musk she never knew she had just inside the pi of bone.

samantha lucero 2017 ©

untitled

tumblr_mnp4z2TdrW1qepf8yo1_500

my scent, not his scent,
but by some changeling blood
could spread the same smile
on halloween. on christmas
waking up in blankets
it didn’t fall asleep in.

there’s bricks that hold down a red
bottlebrush flower from 1994.
remember,
she called you honeysuckle,
and thought rats had no bones.

i remember
my small hand in his
big glove, rough inside
like sand paper. old yellow leather in
a white truck stuck together
with luck, cigarettes in a soft pack,
right in your shirt pocket, next to the
heart in my hand, in your glove
in a warm cup of coffee,

i could live on that smell and skip
meals for the month of
october.
just the memory of it,
and the dregs of
california pain.

i could armor myself in you.
live in your flannel and die.
carve a valknut in my chest
over the hole where no light
can get in.

but you’re the one with
the valknut – you’re
the one who earned it.

through a violent death,
but you’d want the cross
instead.

“these violent delights
have violent ends.”

scorpio.

scorpio.

scorpio.

 

samantha lucero 2017 ©

your hair that traps her

154ebe24554e34f93302d5001f7dd400

you began under the skin,
a squeezing-hug swanning
in the dark red.

you dreamt in amniotic blankets
shifting sinuously in white noise,
soaking into your veins and
never fleeing.

you can still hear it whisper.
sewn into her smell,
the woman you dreamt in,
but punctured,
holding you tight, yet letting
you keep slipping
ringing in your ears like the lunar
mewl of stars.

do you remember
your mother at 2am squinting
at the kitchen table. a skirt full
of aged milk leaking through
a face that touches
the walls of your mind.

she was silk back then,
not the splintery thing she became
when too much life, like too much
smoke, or too much wine
had tunneled underneath her
black eyes.
had bore a hole and let in
ghosts.

you were a note in the ribs
perfume on paper,
the charmed sense to wake up
with the sun, and lie down
with the moon.

she hears you down the hall
in her heart and jolts awake.
it’s your melody of a scent that
never leaves her head.
your hair that traps her.

always listening
when you’re asleep, through
walls and dirt and
stars.

and tonight,
ringing in your ears.


 

© samantha lucero 2017