I knew the orange on the orange tree
you had an ache in your shoulders
uncomfortable in an unnatural way
yesterday I passed you talking to flowers
you hadn't moved you hadn't strayed
but hiding in the leaves was a forced disguise

the omens told me something quiet and unceasing
reminding me of a slumbering domesticated cat
dreaming of cutting yourself loose from truncated ease
dropping down from the branch with panther steps
licking fruit lips ripe with revealed acidic petals
riddled with a past you revelled mixing in with zest

shocking chances stepped in for the next dance
sleep taken aback by wings cut from a dark sky
the sidewalk pitted and cracked beneath the pounce
relief escaped the twigs with a spring like waking prey
pressing into night foliage shaken from a nice balance
as I saw you take control with nothing to mask your face

on the surface too smooth for violence
was laughter of glowing gloom to embarrass
and deter such rebellious arrogance
with a twist struggling from a lame curse
its flavours sharp against your sweetened perfume muscle
expecting you to build a limestone shed for tears
rather than take on the night with a mind to wrestle

the outside aches for your physical attraction
gaining courage from the purpose in your eyes
tense as the tightness of your dress' intention
demanding that my hands draw from such lines
the sinuous heat of pulsing flesh's invitation
curved upon seeds not chaste but not quite refined
which I try not loving with some cool disambiguation

you left me the taste of syrup of grenadine
too reputable to ripple vain red tipple eyed
on a table spilt with pink gin and mandarin
sharp teeth tingling a tartness into my hand
sliding slowly at a tilt like drops of sweat on skin
focus dwindling into the clasp of an escaping shade
wrapped carefully under soft rice paper and then
tucked under a heel with a pointed kick like a blade
only to feel you relent and burst open
soft in appeal again and again

One's grand flights, one's Sunday baths,
One's tootings at the weddings of the soul
Occur as they occur. So bluish clouds
Occurred above the empty house and the leaves
Of the rhododendrons rattled their gold,
As if someone lived there. Such floods of white
Came bursting from the clouds. So the wind
Threw its contorted strength around the sky.

Could you have said the bluejay suddenly
Would swoop to earth? It is a wheel, the rays
Around the sun. The wheel survives the myths.
The fire eye in the clouds survives the gods.
To think of a dove with an eye of grenadine
And pines that are comets, so it occurs,
And a little island full of geese and stars:
It may be that the ignorant man, alone,
Has any chance to mate his life with life
That is the sensual, pearly spouse, the life
That is fluent in even the wintriest bronze.

you drink from your tall glasses, a toast to lives you barely touched.

we do not care for the river of words that rush from your mouth.

we have no use for eulogies underground.

only what you sow you can reap, your nothingness begets nothingness.

we who lay among the roots

do not see the cyanotype sky behind your rouged liquors.

we look below for asphodels to sate a hunger that has no pulse or palate.

Lethe consumes our memories from seeping water.

we talk to shadows without light. we do not bear the stains of summer.

there is no loss when there's nothing to keep.

we who lay among roots

know who we are when separated from you.

your draughts of grenadine are no more than a euphemism

for how we breathe the crimson seeds that keep us under.

It was a cool, overcast and windy Sunday morning in March 2014. We were about 50 miles from Paris, at my Grandmère’s (grandmother’s) farm. She lives in Paris, but she owns a Château and surrounding 1,100-hectare farm that she calls her “fall retreat.”

Between three and five hundred people work on the farm, the Château and its surrounding shops (some work is seasonal). The shops sell wool, cheese, wine and ice cream produced on the farm, as well as touristy things. Many of the employees live on the farm, rent free. Their homes, owned by the farm, form a hameau (village). I didn’t understand much of this at the time, I was 10 years old.

My Grandmère was dedicating a new store just off the village green. The green wasn’t square, like those in the UK and it didn’t have swings or a slide, as I’d hoped. You’d think I’d know a hamlet my Grandmère owned but this place was alien to me. I’d arrived as part of her entourage but as the presentation ground on, I got bored. So, I took Charles by the hand and off we went.

We (my little nuclear family) were living in the UK then and we were visiting Paris for the Easter holiday. The fall before, as the school year had started, a girl in my grade (4th grade or year 5 in the UK) had been kidnapped and murdered on her way home from school. My Grandmère was “having none of it,” and hired Charles, a burly, red-headed, just retired, ex-NYC cop, as my security, escort and practical nanny. He’d been with me for about half a year, at that point, and we’d become fast friends.

It was the height of the pre-summer, Easter season. In addition to the villagers, there were tourists everywhere, picnicking on the grass, visiting the shops and playing football (soccer). Most of the tourists seemed to have small children that ran around. The townspeople sat on benches, eating ice creams and playing dominoes or quoits, a horseshoes-like game, played on a sand pitch.

You couldn’t mistake the two groups - the natives and the tourists. The towns folk were plainly dressed, the women in simple smocks and sweaters, the men wearing slacks, tweed jackets, berets or tag hats. The tourists spoke other languages - there were Italians, Britts, Germans and even Americans - who wore sports logoed t-shirts, shorts, sneakers and baseball caps.

As Charles and I wandered around the village, I asked, “Can we get a sirop?” One of the most popular drinks, in France, is a grenadine sirop (soda). We stopped and as Charles bought us drinks, I wandered a way off. He found me, moments later, hanging from a tree limb, upside down, my hair sweeping the grass like a broom.

“Stop that,” he’d said, swooping me up and off the branch with his soda free hand and setting me alright. As he picked leaves out of my hair, he said, “Don’t wander away from me like that, you know better.” “Yes sir” I agreed. A moment later, he picked me up and placed me atop a low, four-foot parapet wall that ran around the village. I could feel sharp, rough stone edges through my cotton dress but I drank my sirop and didn’t complain.

“You saved me from the dragon,” I said, after my first few sips.
“What dragon?” he said.
“The dragon that had me in its teeth, over there.” I pointed at the tree where I’d been upside down.
“I saved you from yourself,” he said, as he looked around the square.
“That’s silly,” I announced, “how can someone need saving from themselves?”
“Oh, It happens all the time,” he said.

The event ended and as people began leaving, they filed by us on the sidewalk. The village men doffed their hats and the women nodded a quick curtsey as they passed. “Why are they doing THAT?” I asked Charles, “am I a princess?”
“No,” he snorted, “you’re no kind of princess. They’re doing it out of respect for your illustrious grandmother.” “Oh,” I said disappointedly.

A moment later our car pulled up and we were headed back to the city. “Did you have fun?” my Grandmère asked, “yes mam,” I answered. “Did you behave yourself?” She followed up. “Mostly,” I admitted. She nodded, pronouncing, “That’s how it should be,” as the limo turned onto the autoroute (expressway) and accelerated for lunch in Paris.

A rose atop the grenadine stairs
Signifies a portrait of love aflame
In memories we wish for the impossible
In life we wish to surpass reality
"Let dreams inspire life," the opportunist sighed.

When you're nice enough
No one gives you a second glance
Shrieks from down below
Make my pencil move slow
And the heart beat a double step
To a dance floor illuminated by the drunken

She nods," Another night, another life, another dollar."
Musing on this, I tip back
Seeing the slack in her black neck tie
Loosen
Revealing God's only mystery to me

Instead of five paces
Lets make it ten
I want to live longer
The sun is in just the right spot - the moon too -
To die today
"Don't you bet on no heaven boy," the preacher snickered.

"I only made one bet in my life," I said," And that
Bet was with the devil himself."

"Who won?" the crowd asked cheering.

"Who you think?" I answered back yelling.

A hush
Is more sacred
Then
Butterfly wings or
The reflection of the sun
On a moving river or
The wind through the needles
Of a young pine or even
The limp ear lobe of a naive deer

Since the seer is away on business
We will have to make do with
The good book and a bottle of whiskey

"Whiskey?!" shouted the bartender, "No one's
Ordered a whiskey water around here for YEARS!"

"I believe it," I muttered, "The only thing that suits me."

"Hombre?" he whispered, "You from around here."

"I'm from around here as much as anyone else is," I said, "We all just
Passing through."

Buzzer goes off
Ringer echoes through the hallway
Flash of light stabs through the pink window shades
A moan
From a man
Whose name is not known
Down near where
The car was parked last night

Instead of love
Give them faith
Instead of hate
Give them hope
Instead of justice
Give them free will

Reason will have to be the dagger
They **** each other with

Deep set cloud white in its sluggish passing
I knew a woman once that used to be my mother
We all change, don't we?
A number is just a number until it's a name

Take care, dear collide
Stores are emptying
And so is the bride
When the winter sets in
And the winter pass is filled
Take hold to whatever you've got
Every minute is our time

a t-shirt loose framing my hips
i am typecast the antithesis
of your tight *** and your
grenadine lips
tight too for your own back but open
so open
for everyone else's business.

four years you've been together (he's so sweet)
you ignore his hard red hand and his tattoo--
he's all you've got
and you **** it up and smile and you drink till you're interesting
because they wouldn't like you if they knew you weren't
interesting and you'll never be more
than what you are, Small Town.

your eyes are surface-only and the brown that no one notices
except on you because you're better (you tell yourself)
you give hell to yourself
baby you could tell yourself the truth (but don't tell him)

                and you look at me like i am nothing.

but i'm buoyant, you know, the antithesis of
your solid sinking rock heart

                i look back like i am everything.

grenadine smiles only sick-sweet and those
surface eyes make sad effort to hide infernos
i'm on fire, though
and to put it bluntly
it is brighter than yours.

the t-shirt's loose around my hips,
but they are there, underneath (where are yours?)
and my lips are tight only when you're here.
you look at me like i am nothing. i am everything, and
no words will break you (more than you are already broken).

                my eyes are blue and my smile is real, and
                no words will break me either.

Moi mouchard ?... oui, madame Phaïlle,
Comme on Vous nomme dans l'endroit,
Que Tu ravis avec ta taille,
Où tu prends du bout d'une paille,
Au temps chaud, ton sorbet... très froid.

À l'Ictinus ! près de la place
Et du palais de Médicis,
Tu t'asseyais, pâle, un peu lasse ;
Et ta grenadine à la glace
Souriait, rose, à mon cassis.

Beau café ; terrasse ; pratique
Chère aux chanteurs du vieux Faubourg ;
À proximité fantastique
De l'Odéon ; vue artistique
Sur les arbres du Luxembourg.

Je disais ? ah !... ceci, Madame,
Que s'il est un pauvre mouchard
Sur la galère noire où rame
L'esclave du Paris infâme,
Sans l'excuse d'être pochard,

C'est moi, je n'en connais pas d'autre,
Chefs ni roussins. C'est entendu.
Ah ! si ! j'en connais un... l'apôtre...
Ô catholiques, c'est le nôtre ;
Oui, le seul... qui se soit pendu.

Nul n'a ramassé son nom sale ;
L'amour n'a plus redit ce nom.
La chose était trop... colossale !
Qu'un père appelle... Élagabale
Son fils... à la rigueur... mais... non.

Ah ! Madame ! que ça de fête !
J'en connais un second : Javert.
Le Javert chéri du poète,
Qui dit la messe... avec sa tête !
Triste prêtre du bonnet vert !

Mais ça vous pose ! on vous renomme
Chez les gueux et chez les richards !
On croit troubler le pape à Rome !
Et ça fait de vous un grand homme,
Vénéré de tous les mouchards.

Mon Javert, dit-il, est honnête.
Honnête ! où vas-tu te fourrer ?
Ce n'est pas sublime, c'est bête :
Autant contempler la lunette
Où le trou du cul vient pleurer.

Un mouchard, mais ça vend son âme !
Comment, son âme ! son ami !
Ça vendrait son fils ; une femme !
Pourquoi non ? C'est dans... le programme,
On n'est pas honnête à demi.

Ça vendrait n'importe laquelle
D'entre les femmes d'à présent !
Quand je songe que la séquelle
Pourrait t'effleurer de son aile
Ne serait-ce qu'en te rasant,

Comme Éole, qui souffle et cause
Des ravages dans le faubourg
Où, la nuit, Montmartre repose,
Peut importuner une Rose
Dans le jardin du Luxembourg ;

Moins : comme le zéphir, qui rôde,
Vent, on peut dire, un peu balourd,
Mais bon zouave, allant en maraude,
Peut froisser la Fleur la plus chaude
Des plus blanches du Luxembourg ;

Moins : comme une anthère blessée
Par la brise folle qui court,
Sa chemisette retroussée,
Peut entêter une Pensée
La plus belle du Luxembourg.

Moins : comme la vergue cassée
D'un marin, retour de Cabourg,
Fier de sa flotte cuirassée,
Fait se tourner une Pensée
Vers le bassin du Luxembourg ;

Moins : comme une vesce élancée
Par une bague de velours,
Lui fichant sa douce fessée,
Distrait la plus sage Pensée
De l'un et l'autre Luxembourgs ;

Rien que ça ! ce serait la pire
Des injustices envers Toi.
Il est minuit, je me retire.
D'ailleurs, j'ai quelque chose à dire
Au Préfet de Police, moi.

Toi, toutes les femmes sont bonnes,
Tu m'entends ; seules, ou par deux ;
N'appartenant qu'à leurs personnes ;
Quant à tes mouchards... ces colonnes ?
Dis plutôt... ces bâtons merdeux,

Tu vas tous les foutre à la porte ;
Mais, en assurant leurs vieux jours ;
Jusqu'à l'heure où le char emporte,
La dernière... retraite... morte,
Et laisse faire les amours.

Ce sont tes pieds ? Chacun y pisse.
Honneur aux pieds estropiés !
Mais les tiens ! tu sais où ça glisse !
Donc... mon beau Préfet de Police,
Laisse-moi... te laver les pieds...

Assieds-toi ; jette au feu ta honte,
Au vent tous tes affreux papiers !
Fais remplir un bassin en fonte ;
Comme les pieds des douze, compte...
Laisse-moi... te laver les pieds...

Tes pieds aussi noirs que la suie,
Comme moi-même je les eus,
Baignant dans les eaux de sa pluie,
Et souffre que je les essuie
Avec le linge de JÉSUS.

If I could I'd spend
a little bit of this
forever with her
underneath that
streetlamp.

I'd stand with her
there as she leaned
against me with her
fists clenched together
at her chest.
Her Whiskey dressed
breath warm against
my neck.
The moth shadowed
light enhancing her
cheek bones and
proving to me that
there is indeed artistry
in our creation.

If I could I'd spend
whatever is left with
her drunk and troubled,
broke and incomplete,
in Love and alone.
Together but still longing
for that loneliness that
always seems to make
things right.

If given the choice I'ld
probably pick alone.
Or maybe a moment with
her beneath that streetlamp
on the corner of some
numbered street and
Hell itself.

For now I'll fix whats
left  of my stash.
Pour me a wine.
Then fall into a nod
as my opiated mind flashes
a  memory
of her smiling grenadine
stained teeth.

And when the sun decides
to return,so shall
I continue on my way
without her.
Ill slowly pass these
numbered streets
in this lost and broken form
that I've chosen
for this world to judge.

when you smile only your lips move
you’re a beautiful portrait of starched shirts and graceful misery
a whole tragedy told in your bared teeth and narrowed eyes.

when the soft moonlight runs down your face
all i see is plastic flesh and fine lines
jagged edges, discolored hollows—a broken sort of beauty.

the cigarettes and alcohol run electric in your veins;
you are gunpowder and grenadine, razor
    blades and tar. sticky and corroding, sharp and broken.

you wear your jaundice like a punishment
a rotting underneath a supple olive complexion,
from the neglected depths of your weary body.

you are a child with an old man’s scars.
your lost youth poisoned with a misery so heavy
it’s as if you've seen the world and lived through it twice.

you inhale the wild air and you breathe out toxins:
everything about you is decaying and rotting and dying
but in your erratic pulse i hear a muted plea: don’t let me die.

so i lean over, and into you
and let you take in the oxygen of my lungs
and the lingering mint on my tongue.

breathe me:
let me save you from drowning
in lungfuls of nicotine numbness and hallucinogen delusions.

for you in full blossom, i inhale
and exhale the ephemeral, dissonant beauty of your mortality.

once seven pm
in this neck of the woods comes
'round
it's blues and gin time
a bit of eight ball
on the table
the dice in the corner
girls in short dresses
and perfume
Floyd Dixon making the women wet
a bonfire outside
a sip of moonshine
her looking
red lipped
licking
me trying to remember her name
beats turned up and the cue ball slams
into the rack and vicious
I stare seductive as ten grenadine bottles in the window
back at her svelte high hair  load of makeup
smiles tight assed hips posed just right there
hell its past 7 now
give yo a ride home Mabel?
she smiles

Happy, as our dreams inspired, never to grow older

moving apart, never to see, as being ‘any purer’,  
Your dolls ruby blue eyes
Traveled down in the oceans grenadine;

Below thy reels lifting
    as we pulled them legs off
between them knees new green
fell from a heart, the silvery spoon.

Ready A Flight

I miss
grenadine yearly
on the
newt yet
here with
Shultz a
moon in
Jupiter that
everyone slept
their keen  
to surface
now with
brown as
beans with
the syrup
are ready
this flight

I'm the face in your ***** dreams.
I'm your prayer;
your infinity.

You can blame yourself
for wanting more.

I'm your black psalm.

You know your too young;
too imperfect.

I'll disarm you while you want me.
cut you with a smile.
you can watch
my grenadine lips
turn to neon back,

until I'm out of reach.

I am eating when you call.
I let the phone ring out and the answerphone click,

and flick you off, a speck of dust on my shoulder.

I treat you like an unpinned
grenadine, desperate to throw you into the crowd,

but fear makes me clutch you, tight. As I place the ***** of my feet on burning coals. One step, then another, mind over matter.

Until the words that we once held deep in our throats burst through the dam

and I walk into the sea loaded with rocks, drinking the salty ocean one gulp at a time, so I don't have to turn around and

face you

À Juana la grenadine,
Qui toujours chante et badine,
Sultan Achmet dit un jour :
- Je donnerais sans retour
Mon royaume pour Médine,
Médine pour ton amour.

- Fais-toi chrétien, roi sublime !
Car il est illégitime,
Le plaisir qu'on a cherché
Aux bras d'un turc débauché.
J'aurais peur de faire un crime.
C'est bien assez du péché.

- Par ces perles dont la chaîne
Rehausse, ô ma souveraine,
Ton cou blanc comme le lait,
Je ferai ce qui te plaît,
Si tu veux bien que je prenne
Ton collier pour chapelet.

Le 20 octobre 1828.

While the animals tremble,
                               stay with me.

I’ve heard them speak of this day

As I lay on lily-pads the colour of Eden.

Don’t put on that cloak.
                                    It’s not yet time.

First, I’ll bring you three-halves pear and pomelo.

We’ll watch the grenadine smoke blow
                                                    Across the pewter skies.

Don’t let’s sleep and think we dreamt this.

Stay with me and watch it burn
                                                     Let our pupils dilate.
Our hearts will save us
                              My heart.

I’m so ******* high on stardust, I inject glitter into my bloodstream.
I live in no fairytale and that a prince won’t find me is highly likely.
I only write stories about longing, after all that’s all I feel.
But I’m good with the pen, have a soul of a poet, I’m creative.
So I grab my calligraphy pen and I write your name in cursive, then I take one breath and write mine next to yours.
It’s an untitled story, an unpublished romance and I’m not sorry for any nuance woven into it.
I take his proposition.
Ask my everwishing soul to speak sweet compliments like someone playing the harp.
I polish my blue eyes like sapphires, let them sparkle in the glow of big round emeralds,
and that is the start.
That is the start.

Where do I continue, I wonder.
Friends first or lovers, I ponder.
For realism I’ll make it meander and weave in a couple of tears wet nights so when all the lights turn back at them, he would grow fonder and realize he loves him so much.
But my pen is just an object, I’m the object of some grand plan, I’d try to paint what I crave so bad, but even the greatest painters fail, cause love is hard.
Play my song, take a cruise under overpasses in West Oakland, California is home, but if he won’t come I think I won’t go.
And that is the draft.
That is the draft.

After many ripped out pages and grenadine flavored drinks, I can’t write the conclusion.
I don’t wanna be there yet
I don’t wanna skip past that
I don’t wanna climb that high
Cause if I fall, may not stand up.
I leave my calligraphy pen, shut the pages provisionally, then I get undressed and swim in the glittering stars.
And that is the ending for now.
That is the ending for now.

Troy says beach walks are all the rage.
I’m a city kind of guy.
He could play guitar till the end of day.
And I’d drink beer till night.
He hates to vape and I really hate it.
That strawberry smoke tastes better when he exhales it.
I’m chopping wood to keep up the fire.
Fire lasts, feeling expires.
What now?
He treats me like the weaker one.
He treats me like the weaker one.
He treats me like the weaker one.
And the RV doesn’t feel like home.

I wanna remain faithful.
Make him happy but I can’t.
Pour grenadine into his glass with a shaky hand.
He tells me to chill.
But knows **** well I can’t.
I wanna hold onto him but I can’t even hold myself.

I don’t wanna go on a roadtrip or the store that’s a couple miles away.
I’m good overthinking, smoking, swimming at the shore of the bay.
I feel the sand falling down in between my fingers on the ground.
Does he mind a reassurance ******’s rant, I hate that sound.

Troy thinks that the bygone era’s gone by for good.
I’m all that’s left.
I need just Joni and a whiskey to touch down.
He likes grass instead.
He hates to show off and I’m losing patience.
God, if he could just manspread on the chair and let me watch.
I’ll just wash clothes in the river and live on.
Without him or with him.
What now?
I got a whole country to cross.
I got a whole country to cross.
I got a whole country to cross.
Cause one plus half ain’t two.

I love how his hair comes down.
How he lets me down.
It’s so attractive.
I love him with his glasses on.
That just turns me on.
Like a light switch.

I wanna remain faithful
I wanna remain-
I wanna remain faithful
I wanna remain-
Sorry if I come out hateful
But you get in my way
I’d give you all my warmth
But you’re pushing me away

I’m a bad, bad, bad, bad case.
You keep pushing me away.
I wanna remain-
I should’ve remained-
I’m a bad, bad, bad, bad case.
You keep pushing me away.
I wanna remain-
I should’ve remained faithful.