antiseptic love songs

poem collaborations by Poetic Star [sharon] and Aya Scribbles [tiara]
baby, your arsenic lips still taste
like winter never ended and
you know I'd kill myself
for more
♥

previous entries

-'-.-'-.-'-.-'-.-'-

♥♥♥

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rust and angel's blood

scraps of paper float in the air

through the japanese night,

making the pieces of

last year’s letters

become illegible sentences;

all wrinkled and unknowable

like your beat-up personality,

your tough-as-nails,

bright as sapphires

artisan-made heart.

my casket muse of damaged bones,

i write lyrics about

your ripcord tongue

and crave to skinny-dip into

your post-it blue eyes,

but you just pull me

into the outskirts of

your trickster stare

and i eventually drown

in the crucified

waves of your smile.

crystal raindrops slide down your neck

as we kiss, our lips cold

and holding nothing but

a bottle-necked affection,

a one-sided proclamation;

friendship bracelets

gone missing somewhere

in a field of lakota

grass and wise man’s tales,

empty promises

tinged with rust

and angel’s blood.

and as i tattoo my own

perspective of a magazine

urban legend onto

my music box mixtape of

scripted sincerity,

the sugar acid sky

drinks my tears as

a sour-sweet sacrifice.

boy, you are a feather

that fell off a mythical

creature’s storybook wing,

a chip of glass from

heaven’s window,

mistaken for an african

diamond dusted with sand.

your eyes, the melody of ashes,

hostage rare dragonflies

whose secrets yearn to

be buried beneath our

tranquil sanctuary,

where reia-lily petals

and russian ballerinas

pirouette within

a kabuki cyclone.

you’re so rough

around the edges

but gorgeous within;

lasting a millennium,

your honey-wheat irises

sparkle with mischief and lust,

tantalizing pools of

bright saturday night fun.

and as our fingertips burn

like static electricity,

a playground of nymphs

sing a carousel lullaby

in our memory

while a bottle cap moon

gets stuck between

a polaroid of crows.

and i’m only here because

we’ve been friends forever,

not because you really want me

to be your gaslit paramour.

you in your motorcycle jacket,

stark against a jaded

new york street;

boy, you’ll always be

unreachable to me.

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dearest,

i watched a frostbitten moon from the perspective of my lunette window. murmurs of moccasin wind smuggled a hailstorm of your tears as the graveyard of my crucified sky splattered sawdust rain resembling a tumbleweed paroxysm of a pollock painting while reflecting a silhouette of your poinsettia smile from the cracks in the ceiling.

and the schizophrenic cacophony of a tinsel nightingale perched above my mistletoe heart shrieked your name. fragile wings fluttered like twinkle lights dying. our souls damned, mislead the direction of heaven.

i killed the melody inside me. burned the song birthed by my kashmiri lips. cinnamon apothecary incense perfumed my room back home every time we listened to vinyl records.

there are girls here just like me, the same brokenness reflected in our eyes where sandalwood roses used to bloom on midsummer nights, illuminated by lemon citronella stars.

and even if i pillage the halls of this asylum for a fragment of our cherished moments together, i still couldn’t unearth the ghost of your antebellum kiss because you were like a seraph to me. but, now you are lost-- trapped inside my mind for eternity within a bottle of memories.

sincerely, t.f

-'-,'-,'-,'-,'-,'-,'-,'-

darling,

the sea here is a dreadful shade of charcoal, unlike the turquoise and pearl ocean that used to hit the shores of your father’s home. we looked for oysters all day, remember, when the tides were low and the breeze whipped our hair around, untying our ribbons with her snowbound fingers? you looked so lovely and free, running in your bare feet, sunlight playing tricks with the green in your eyes. i will never forget that image. darling, it makes these icy nights without you bearable.

but i hope you’re alright. i’m scared to death that this is all false hope, that my letter will never reach you through the bars of that ladylike asylum. it’s so hypocritical that they’ve locked you up just for being you. darling, my anger causes screams to rip out of my throat whenever i miss you too much my hands grab teacups and china, smashing all that jewelry into the wall of my aunt’s house, a new hiding place they’ve found for a disgrace like me to seek refuge while my lover is tortured psychologically and in ways that i am too ashamed to imagine.

oh darling, please forgive me. all i wanted was to love another girl. i didn’t think about the consequences.

though i’m grateful that you were the one who gave me a chance-- to grab at your childish wishing star and wear it on a sterling chain around my neck, to accompany you on walks through the gardens and parks in town and get to know you, not as the daughter of a businessman, an heiress with more money than i could ever have, but as a person who loves bird-watching with binoculars in hand and peppermint ice cream at the fair, canaries and irish songs played on the piano in front of the fireplace.

darling, if i could take back what your family did to you and put me in your place, i would. you don’t deserve to be there because you’re not sick or insane. and if they loved you, truly, then they wouldn’t care that you’re attracted to females; ladies in winterblue gowns with pearl gloves and pieces of poetry hidden in their sleeves, girls who want something more than marriage, who lie awake, listening to radio broadcasts and reading newspapers about factory strikes and suffragate movements over cups of café au lait. that’s what you want; a real woman, a dreamer, with flaws, with mistakes, making her beautiful in the mirror and not someone who’s okay with being a trophy-- a misplaced photo on a mantle.

for awhile i thought i could be that, i could be anything you created in your wicked imagination. for awhile, darling, i thought we could buy a cottage somewhere in the english countryside and nobody would have to know the truth about us. we could make up some story for why we lived together. you could be my sister. people always did say we looked alike-- our hair similar shades of autumn blond. only our eyes were different; yours like sea glass and celtic fairy hills, mine like firewood, crushed acorns and turkish silk-- warm like my personality. now all i feel is anger , nothing tender.

darling, please let me know that you’re alright and that they haven’t stolen the last thing we have in common; a steam punk heart.

yours always, s.d

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. u r b a n s e r e n a d e .

i shoplifted the mojito moon from your

liquor store eyes because i could still relish

the taste of cancer from your angel bones.

i constantly veiled the demons inside me

behind rock ballads just to have the

dissident privilege to corrupt your

underground innocence and distort

your old-fashioned purity since

my soul was merely damned by

the cataclysm of your kiss.

baby, one touch was never good enough

and you know i'll rip out my icebox heart

just to prove the monster in

me wants more.

i don't want to close my black leather jacket eyes

and forget the music of your screams, resembling

the beautiful screeching of broken

double-neck guitar strings when

i plucked them to the tune

of gunshots last night.

your mouth tasted like the summer

i took off my shirt and dove into

the sequined river beneath the city skyline,

almost drowning, but not quite;

feeling the water’s temperature

like ice daggers on my spine,

wishing everything would end

in blood oranges and dead magnolia blossoms.

you wore cigarettes and revolvers

similar to a vampire bite piercing,

illuminating a spiral rainbow illusion

that exploded like the reflection

of a rosetta sky when

struck by snakeskin lightning.

and all around us,

the world was on fire

like indian paintbrush

but still i couldn’t relinquish

your poetic face or fighter spirit,

so you became the ever-present

muse in my serenade.

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touching my lips with sweet vindication

On the night of my eighteenth birthday, we fell asleep on freezing

cobblestone under a hanging of Savannah moss with the taste of rain

on our tongues, but while I was dreaming of dancing the Viennese waltz

with you in the rustic untamed woods, Darling, you were already planning

to disappear and I couldn't catch your suicide love note because it

was torn up by the acorn-stapled west wind.

But I swore I would honor your memory by making

the guilty ones pay for pushing you off that cliff, boy.

That’s just how I do things. Vindication for me is therapeutic.

The dead sunset left blood stains splattered

all over the horizon, resembling scratch marks

of November’s epitaph upon dawn’s headstone.

They, your parents and closest alliances were digging their claws

into your mind, using it against you because everyone

knows that that is the greatest weapon in the world.

I was there when you got so tense, that you yanked at your silky nut

brown strands and drank a deadly cocktail of poison oak and holly red berries.

Why you didn't talk to me; I realize I wasn't strong enough.

But now this is me, making it up to you, dear.

I’ll tap my fingers against my attic window and send hail

to kill your family’s ranch; make them see that you never

wanted to be in that business and the pressure

is what strangled all your hopes and dreams.

Darling, I won’t let your so-called friends get away either.

The clouds my cool breath makes as I step outside become

blizzards of frosted prisons that cover the entire city.

Do you think I’m cruel, wherever you are now?

Well, call it human nature. You used to say I was

beautiful and graceful, while tucking copper leaves

in my braided hair and kissing the cinnamon freckle

just below my ear. I used to believe I deserved happiness.

But apparently I wasn't pretty enough for you

to stick around and share with me that gift.

So every time I do something despicable, your chiseled

face flashes across the deep sea thoughts and it’s too late

to summon back the dead with a lighthouse torch now, love.

I can’t stop..

The russet apple sun sinks its teeth into my neck,

devouring what’s left of the garbage stars

upon my skin and then spitting them in the gutter.

Dewdrops trace a path on my cheek, glistening like

rare diamonds that reflect my melancholia.

Darling, I wish I could turn back time,

before all the sand in the hourglass had run out

so we could catch all the snowflakes

that used to gather dust inside our souls,

bringing your shadow back to life after

being buried alive in yesterday’s casket.

And Darling, I buried the locket of our reckless romance

in the snow where it will never resurface because

everything winter touches dies in a glass casket so this

last autumn song addressed to you is my redemption.

Darling, you were the only pure thing I ever held in my hands.

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dirty angel lips

The irresistible grunge guitar and guttural prettiness of my favorite singer’s voice drew me out of the house, despite my grandmother’s strict rules. A friend was waiting at the end of the neighborhood, sitting in her jeep with her feet propped up on the dashboard. And we sped through the late Toronto haze, already mouthing lyrics as excitement thumped in our lacy black moth chests.

There was a café hidden deep in the city’s thicket that was the setting for our youthful escapade. Denim tights and eye shadow hearts adorned my wiry frame as my friend applied pink truffle lip shine to her fearless smile and linked her arm through mine as we hurried across the yellow pavement.

Inside, people were already swaying in a fog of indigo and broken zombie love songs; a dissonance of sounds screaming through the aftermath of a spider web refrain. It was as if a requiem was playing in my memory and I was so lost in the unchained tunes of distorted angels that I almost missed your shape, leaning against the exit doorframe.

Torn cornflower jeans and an Alice in Chains t-shirt under faded jacket sleeves; you were decked out in a 90s trailer park costume that made me curious. Silky indigenous black hair cascaded beautifully down your neck but your skin has a ghastly pallor.

You spotted me and we shared a glance that was impossibly fleeting and soft like the time span of a raindrop landing on my arm before it melts into apricot. Then you turned towards the stairs, ascending as I rushed to catch your retreating mystery.

Bran, your ashtray eyes led me to the rooftop but when I got up there, there was no sign of your dangerously cool existence; just the wet breeze whipping through my hair and a crow or raven of some wicked sort, tapping across the ledge.

Bran, you were too bright for this stranded person but the soot-covered bird had the same smokescreen stare you harbored before vanishing.

And when I finally saw you again, shooting stars hit the concrete but I barely noticed the twinkling disorder because you were illuminated with a spotlight of your own. Standing alone in the middle of the street, you looked like a lost boy so far from home.

Stretching up on my tiptoes, I impulsively caressed your cheek, just to know what it feels like to burn underneath your sugar cube skin and when you began to utter an unsolved paperback murder, my heart melted into a puddle of forget-me-not sympathy.

The 1992 Mitsubishi Galant you were driving crashed into a boulder on a winding mountain-side road one evening when you were coming back from your girlfriend’s house. Later you found out that the brakes had been tampered with and that the accident was intended for your sweetheart but unfortunately you fell into this evil trap instead.

Heaven’s gates were padlocked, sending you back to solve the riddle of your violent death. Twenty years have passed, but this was the first time someone listened to your confessions.

I placed a finger on your dirty angel lips to silence your clover leaf ramblings, feeling what it’s like to smolder in the afterglow of your smile.

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halcyon days and sandalwood roses

I can’t sleep..

The air conditioner’s

not working and I’m

wondering what you’re

doing right now, darling.

Trying not to get caught,

I tiptoe out the back door

and head down the silent

street laden with magnolias.

American flags wave gently

on neighbors’ porches and

the air is stuffy but sweet

like warm apple pie

and sandalwood roses.

The gas station’s abandoned

except for your blue pickup.

As I climb inside,

you greet me with

a butter cream-laced smile.

The ginger lily sky spells

out our names as

you start driving,

your shy glances

sparkle lush green

like an overgrown

meadow and your

voice sounds like raindrops

tap-dancing across

the truck’s windshield.

The lake on Holyoke

looks irresistible and

we quickly strip off our

tank tops and aqua jeans.

Darling, you might not

believe me but this is

the best hour spent

in summer existence.

Butterflies tangle with

the purple ribbons in

your jasmine locks,

reminding me of

lemonade sunshine

and your lips tease

my starburst skin

as we leap into

the prism water.

Oh I spoke too soon..

Nothing compares to

swimming lazily

towards the dock

and feeling your

hands slick around

my waist and my

cheek grazing

the curve of your neck

as we huddle together

beneath the pecan trees.

It’s magical and refreshing;

a stolen kiss between friends

as the night cools down slowly;

the purest temptation and

I hope no one finds the letter

written in sugar moonshine

that you slipped in my hand

on our way home through

the mockingbird forest.

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silver wings on the highway

No songbird can inspire

A smile on your lips these days

And no autumn leaf can

Change the icy blue

Sorrow in your eyes.

When you look in the mirror,

It’s as quick as you

Can manage since

The hour I vanished

From your side in an

Accident that was so

Tragically last minute.

Baby, it might sound

Strange but I feel an

Emptiness even as I’m

Trapped in this glassy

Space like a stowaway

Ghost in a tattered shirt.

I wish I could reach you

In time but you ran away

Before I could even read

What’s on your pretty mind.

Now someday maybe you’ll

Find we can still be in touch

Though my body was crushed

Beneath a bridge at 11:09 and

Black feathers stained

The concrete but I still

Had your sweet name

Stuck in my throat..

Bright like a lighthouse’s

Saving glow,

Your profile

To me is more than just

Beautiful

As you sip coffee on

The balcony,

Acting like

Nothing’s wrong,

While waiting for

A miracle.

But it’s not coming,

Sweetheart.

And you dip newspapers

In rainbow milk

As mixed emotions rain

Down your face.

I know this sounds

Impossible but I still

Feel your warmth like

A Fourth of July noon

Seeping through this

Piece of shadow that’s

Become my home.

Maybe someday we’ll

Find a way to be

Close without throwing

Anything away.

Just promise me now

That you’ll share the

Beauty of your soul

With someone new.

And baby,

Don’t go speeding

Down the street

To meet me here

In stolen death.

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forgiveness for a pirate

Dusk choked the sky with patchwork promises

as the jellyfish moon swims in a mist of lucky

strike cigarette smoke and I must be dreaming

because the Cherokee stars

I've been trying to reach aren't even there.

Still I bury parchment secrets under the birdhouse,

piling dirt and sand over a little box of conspiracies;

all of my stepmother's faults and jealous deeds leave

treasure map bruises in the corners of my mind.

She was a lady with frosty blond locks who rolled into town,

wearing expensive clothes from somewhere up north.

Little brother, I remember when you were born;

the festivities surrounding your twinkling baby blues and soft mouth.

Everyone expected me to be jealous but I loved you from the start.

A year passed quickly and then two more..

You grew into a lover of coal black pirate

ships and scouting for eagles near the cliffs.

On my fifteenth birthday, Dad gave me a brand new journal

and Stepmother pushed a useless makeup kit across the table,

commenting that I needed to masque my boring features.

But they were both shocked when you fastened a pretty

sterling chain around my neck.

Little brother, that was so kind of you, I almost wept.

Mayflowers dropped on the rooftop one summer

as we kicked a ball in the yard.

It rolled away towards the road and you ran to get it.

I shouted for you to come back because a truck was

passing but it happened too fast..

Now I'm a girl with silver blades for tears,

swinging against the chilly wind while

humming pathological nursery rhymes.

And you never stopped blaming yourself.

Oh Little Boy Blue, if you find my diary;

caked in dirt and melancholy,

you will know the truth about

so many things that as kids,

we shouldn't fall witness to.

At eighteen, you're a young man with

a baseball glove in one hand

and a suitcase in the other.

Little brother, I watched your game

from my place on the phantom bleachers.

Before the final strike, I could've sworn

you whispered my name,

throwing your guilt all the way across

the outfield and painting

a dream catcher smile on my ghost face.