Ligne 7 gothic

An alarm goes off and you find a seat. It’s all perfectly suspended in a bubble of lightning – you sit down. Your stop is at the end of the line, the bait to your fishing rope of a life. The other seats, mostly deserted, seem like they’d rather be speaking. An alarm goes off. Quite odd, all of this, when you’re the only fish you gut (asphyxiation is much too cruel). You come closer. To wherever.

An alarm goes off.

Poetry prompt: Wrath

I am a blazing ghost
floating through walls
I used to howl in pain, in despair
but I grew out of despair
now only wrath and silence drive me


And they don’t seem to be bothered
they see the frying pans full of hot oil shake and shriek
but don’t think they might be haunted
it’s all a game for them a game to play
before going to bed


I am a blazing ghost
ice scares me
I live in winter streets
in the middle of my fear


I think I drowned
long ago
in a polluted river

Poetry prompt: Salt burn

It keeps my eyelids shut
it keeps my ears open
I am noting but a salt wound
in the middle of a salt circle


is it the sea
is it a magic ritual?


my skin’s burning
as do candles
in the middle of the day.


what will come
when all is finally over? I hope the sea
doesn’t bleach our skulls I hope magic
still exists somewhere


meanwhile, I’ll be saying
what mad women do
inside of their ceilings.

Poetry prompt: The rise and fall of cicadasong

I can never see them
but know they’re here around
maybe in the trees
maybe on the ground
cicada songs


When I cried late into the night
they were silent; when I sobbed, hysterical,
biting my pillow, I could hear their disheartened
disapproval –
When we drank wine at sundown
(for they love to cheer)
they would gladly sing along
going louder as the wine sank in us –
When light was a soft blur on the stones
oh, hectic they were – but I cannot see them,
cicadas, summer’s voices,
our proof that if time could walk
it would look around
and unearth them
cicada songs.

Poetry prompt: Thinking about your almost lover

You know I kept
this scrap of paper you gave me
with a funny doodle of my eyes
(how I wish
you would have drawn something else
making up my lips with yours)


And last night your hand
played a bit too long with mine
you did that silly thing
of comparing our hand sizes


And I’d write you poems,
elegies, everything
if I only knew how to understand your face
and the funny moves you do
when you think none’s watching


You know I collected my old pearls you know the ones
we used to make friendship necklaces back when we were kids
I wanted to make you one but I forgot how to do so
instead I put all the letters of your name inside a little bag
that once held earrings
and I hear the letters knock together


what can I do, once I’ve said
you have eyes as black as the ink of my doodle?
what can I say? The blanket
cannot wait to wrap you
keeping you inside its warmth –


You know I kept a sample
of your perfume I got at the store – and picture
the back of your neck, your earlobe
covered in silver jewelry – I can hear
your giggle when I’ll finally be
brave enough to kiss you.

Poetry prompt: filtered sunlight

It’s a lazy afternoon,
the bed still keeps the track
of her back, of her knees
of her smell


The plants at the window
make the air go green;
the blinds are half-shut,
leaving filtered sunlight enter
and clean the room


Oh, to keep the score! of your body,
of your laughter,
oh, to keep the score! I can’t seem
to focus on my book; the bed’s still open,
a soft white in the subdued sunlight. When
will you be back? soon enough
the night will come; will you see
how the light plays on my bedsheets?
I bet it’s even softer
with you in there.


Still, the light turns
and enters dusk
apologizing, seemingly.

Poetry prompt: sparkling shadow

the night at my window
sparkling shadow


my fire’s burning
my heart’s aching


it beats
knock, knock
that sound again
will it ever
leave me to my pain?


night, a woman
in her evening dress
of shining opals
her nails a bit too long
her teeth a bit too white


is it her
or the cat maybe
scratching at the door?


I’ll know it when the right
night will come,
I’ll follow her
and forget it all – but for now
the night’s at my window
sparkling shadow.

Poetry prompt: Laughing water

She came to the pond every night,
as the lights started to twinkle in the city;
she brought a candle
that smelled like cinnamon.


She sat on the tree
the old oak tree that had its roots
deep inside the soil, the tree
that had seen the rise and fall of clouds
and the moon reflecting on the still water
of the pond.


One night, she heard a sound
but dismissed it – probably an animal
but what kind of beast
laughs with this crystal clear voice?
No – she must have imagined it. And the cinnamon candle,
slowly, expanded its light and smell – and everything was
oh so peaceful.


The second night
she could swear she saw
a head – not deep down
not diving
not at the surface of the water either
but rather
a head of water
emerge, for an instant
looking at her in the eyes –
then vanish.


On the third night
she could barely smell the cinnamon;
it smelled of stone
after rain, when the dirt
is wet and warm in the summer.


But on the last night,
a placid night in the middle of June,
a hand touched hers;


a hand made of water –
and the water smiled
as it extinguished the candle.

Poetry prompt: the labyrinth

Prompt: « after having made it out of the labyrinth I arrive at the doorway that is said to have truth just beyond it »

« I made my way
out of the snow that isn’t cold,
but tears you apart like teeth;
I made my way
out of the monsters, darker than night,
convoluted snakes, headless dragons
you confront for your death –
how terrible! they make you
see through the skull
of others, knights or maidens,
polluting your mind forever – but
I made my way out. And
after having made it out of the labyrinth
I arrived at the doorway that is said to
have truth just beyond it.
A trench
separated us; I climbed
and climbed – the portal
is there, I reach into it,
and I find – can you believe?
Two eyes, brown in their white liquid
that ignored me as I saw them – I was
one of them! I fell down,
quickly devoured by the trench,
to get back to the white plains
of pure nothing – »


And a thumb, nonchalant
turned the page.