So, Say the Naive Ones
The night delivers secrets to my pillow
Inside I know I should stop
here, should save what comes next
for the story I am writing,
the one where the girl is not so innocent,
is not the Princess posed under
the tree who awaits said dark eyed King,
but is the other --
There is a collection of Chinese fortunes
in the bottom of my purse,
kept there for quick reference
on the days that make no-sense
my favorite tells me "There is a serpent
coiled under the rock"
He meets me at noon,
brushes the hair from my face,
slides his fingers into mine.
We discuss our happenings,
wash phantoms with cheap champagne,
order Bisque and smile
at the waitress;
I am counting syllables and breaths --
he is the serpent!
Two weeks later I am burning;
he has left for Calgary,
said there was something he needed
to take care of:
My eyes close and there are flames,
in the mirror I pray,
telling myself it is only an illusion,
dreams are the residue left
after you've cleansed the sins.
There is a saying that reverberates
in my mind, finds its way into my belly
and claims my core as its home:
The Flames believe in slow death,
in a power greater than the stars,
the winds, the waters.
And I can't stop myself from asking:
If I return a man, will I then be the snake,
and who then
shall be the witch?
The night delivers secrets to my pillow
Inside I know I should stop
here, should save what comes next
for the story I am writing,
the one where the girl is not so innocent,
is not the Princess posed under
the tree who awaits said dark eyed King,
but is the other --
There is a collection of Chinese fortunes
in the bottom of my purse,
kept there for quick reference
on the days that make no-sense
my favorite tells me "There is a serpent
coiled under the rock"
He meets me at noon,
brushes the hair from my face,
slides his fingers into mine.
We discuss our happenings,
wash phantoms with cheap champagne,
order Bisque and smile
at the waitress;
I am counting syllables and breaths --
he is the serpent!
Two weeks later I am burning;
he has left for Calgary,
said there was something he needed
to take care of:
My eyes close and there are flames,
in the mirror I pray,
telling myself it is only an illusion,
dreams are the residue left
after you've cleansed the sins.
There is a saying that reverberates
in my mind, finds its way into my belly
and claims my core as its home:
The Flames believe in slow death,
in a power greater than the stars,
the winds, the waters.
And I can't stop myself from asking:
If I return a man, will I then be the snake,
and who then
shall be the witch?
Mounting Trepidation
There is a peculiar silence that creeps
in just before
the realization that something
is about to die.
As if the ghost has already
made its way into
your life
and you know why
it has come.
Perhaps it is some mythical
form of Temperance
that you have read about
as a child, back when you
still understood
that Angels are real
and they do come to visit.
Or is it the other,
the fang-toothed beast
that always kept company
under your bed, so far under
that your mother couldn't find him...
even with a flashlight. I believe it is Temperance,
surely it must be, the other couldn't find you
after all these years.
No, no-one could
find you after all these years.
Except an Angel.
But that would sound tired
to the disbelievers, to speak of
angels calling,
and demons lurking.
Foolish child, attach your head back
on to your body!
I hear this in the back of my head,
over and over again. Still,
I know
that there are demons, real demons,
the ones with red eyes
and all that's required
to be considered a demon.
But I won't tell you about them,
because then,
then you might believe,
you might understand
that there is no other way to describe
that which is unfathomable
to the mind and the peculiar silence that creeps
in
right before
something
is about to die.
(c) Maria Lupinacci
In the House of Subjectivity
The walls haunt me,
these damn walls.
Everywhere I turn,
panel, plaster, mortar.
Blocks upon blocks. Negative reinforcements designed
to keep me in --
eternally in.
Walls and doors, doors and walls...
locks, bolts, keyholes. Those skeleton keyholes --
the ones that tease, tease me
with their bony tongues
poking through the holes,
but never
pulling them back out!
What tricksters
are they, so humorless am I.
They watch me squirm,
and hound
for an opening. An out...
is what I need.
Need:
What an hysterical word;
I dare to whisper in my sleep.
So I paint myself
in the finest of shades,
layer upon layer, until I find one
that fits quite comfortably.
Amber, burgundy,
crimson.
Crimson
in all its tainted glory,
its fiery glow that illuminates
the darkest of quarters,
giving light to unseen staircases,
behind covert doors. What brilliance
in this intoxicating shade!
I paint and paint, until i am
Crimson and
I am free.
(c) Maria Lupinacci
There is a peculiar silence that creeps
in just before
the realization that something
is about to die.
As if the ghost has already
made its way into
your life
and you know why
it has come.
Perhaps it is some mythical
form of Temperance
that you have read about
as a child, back when you
still understood
that Angels are real
and they do come to visit.
Or is it the other,
the fang-toothed beast
that always kept company
under your bed, so far under
that your mother couldn't find him...
even with a flashlight. I believe it is Temperance,
surely it must be, the other couldn't find you
after all these years.
No, no-one could
find you after all these years.
Except an Angel.
But that would sound tired
to the disbelievers, to speak of
angels calling,
and demons lurking.
Foolish child, attach your head back
on to your body!
I hear this in the back of my head,
over and over again. Still,
I know
that there are demons, real demons,
the ones with red eyes
and all that's required
to be considered a demon.
But I won't tell you about them,
because then,
then you might believe,
you might understand
that there is no other way to describe
that which is unfathomable
to the mind and the peculiar silence that creeps
in
right before
something
is about to die.
(c) Maria Lupinacci
In the House of Subjectivity
The walls haunt me,
these damn walls.
Everywhere I turn,
panel, plaster, mortar.
Blocks upon blocks. Negative reinforcements designed
to keep me in --
eternally in.
Walls and doors, doors and walls...
locks, bolts, keyholes. Those skeleton keyholes --
the ones that tease, tease me
with their bony tongues
poking through the holes,
but never
pulling them back out!
What tricksters
are they, so humorless am I.
They watch me squirm,
and hound
for an opening. An out...
is what I need.
Need:
What an hysterical word;
I dare to whisper in my sleep.
So I paint myself
in the finest of shades,
layer upon layer, until I find one
that fits quite comfortably.
Amber, burgundy,
crimson.
Crimson
in all its tainted glory,
its fiery glow that illuminates
the darkest of quarters,
giving light to unseen staircases,
behind covert doors. What brilliance
in this intoxicating shade!
I paint and paint, until i am
Crimson and
I am free.
(c) Maria Lupinacci
Painting (c) Malcolm Deeley