Favorite word: “nymphet”, but no!
Halcyon, a kind of drug, you know.
Searching through the pages’ mist
And imagined deeds
Of poets’ needs…
I found my favourite word,
As asked,
Neither sacred nor profane
That describes the Venetian rain
In my beloved’s eyes
And the Florentine sun upon her hair:
“Auburn, russet, mythopoeic”.
Oh, it is not fair,
To liken an object
Of my lust and love
To anything as mortal as autumn air!
Nor “October’s orchard Haze”;
She had her own
Inscrutable, premeditated ways!
Rather let me say that she was perfect,
Though her eyes, pale and myopic,
Her shuffling gait and
Graceless limbs, to them Grace lends
Fey charm, the power to mend
My suffering and
Delusions of a poet’s end
As anything but pathetic,
(Her mother’s fondness for vague emetics)
And I left softly hanging,
On a girl’s new taste,
A tang of russet apples on her face,
But no, not that, the sum
Of my love, My Lo!
Then her bleak demise, partly by my hand
That none of you brutes could understand;
The pure love,
So sadly consummated,
Between a lover
And the one she hated
Yet loved once with inexplicable delight,
On one stolen, frightened night…
In which the two of us agreed
To satisfy a simple, yet maniacal need,
And then depart…
But I could not,
You see;
She was my life,
My love, my heart.

Humbert Humbert 1950

Sharon Talbot ca. 2005

The Sinclair police force isn’t large. Most of the officers former frat boys and two-year college coeds straight from being your typical campus drunkards and *****, the ones lucky enough to avoid one too many DWIs and able to stick it out through police cadet training. They were young, white and gifted with two-dimensional thinking. Two female officers, Stephanie Humbert and Regina Fassbinder, were assigned to the Randall killings. They didn’t have a clue where to begin their investigation, other than with the anonymous reports of a large dog in the vicinity. This struck Fassbinder, a pretty strawberry blonde, as similar to a case she’d read about in the paper.
Sitting with Humbert in the back booth of a diner, she mused that maybe the dog had crossed the state line and was now roaming the suburbs.
Humbert scoffed, “Come on now! How big a dog we talkin’?”
“Not a little dog—big enough to eat a woman’s leg off. That’s big enough to tear Mrs. Randall to pieces.”
“And tear his head clean off? Come on now!”
About the woman whose leg had been eaten; there was a mystery. The body had disappeared from the large New York City morgue after the coroner himself had been torn into pieces so small and messy they had had to mop up his remains and store them in Ziploc bags. The detectives assigned to the case had had nothing to work with besides the rumor of a large dog either, and were in fact having troubles of their own and were presently on official leave of absence. One of the detectives, Ron Capshaw, took his in great stride. Having just lost his wife in a tragic shooting incident, he had proposed to a female officer and gone off to Atlantic City to be married. The other detective, Jake Knudsen, did not sit so easily with his virtual suspension. When he heard that a large dog might be responsible for the mauling of the New Jersey couple in their home, he drove out to see just what the hell that was all about.
He arrived in the small town and went into the precinct. There is only one precinct in all of Sinclair, and the desk sergeant on duty told him that officers Humbert and Fassbinder were out on patrol. They weren’t detectives. Sinclair detectives were apparently far too busy to be bothered with reports of prowling dogs; even, or especially, if the dog in question was capable of dismembering a grown woman and decapitating a grown man. He saw the police car parked in front of the diner and went in. Seeing the officers sharing a salad, he walked over and sat. “Ladies,” he said. “Name’s Knudsen, Detective, NYPD. I hear you got a problem wit’a dog.”
Both women looked at him bewildered.
“What’d you say?” asked Humbert the skeptic.
“A dog. We got a case in New York. A dog,” he started again when Fassbinder jumped in.
“Ate that woman’s leg off! I read ‘bout dat!”
Knudsen was pleased but didn’t show it. He wasn’t that pleased. The waitress came over and asked if he’d like to see a menu.
“Sure,” he said and she showed him one. “Gimme a burger, no—make it a salad.” He then turned to the officers. “I’m kinda off meat.”
“What about this dog?” Humbert chimed.
Knudsen leaned in on them, saying hushed, “’Tween you’n’me, there ain’t any ******* dog.”
Humbert sat bolt upright and shouted, “Ain’t none! Well, how do you explain…?”
“Pipe down, Stephanie,” Fassbinder scolded mildly. “Let him explain.”
Knudsen, leaning back took a pack of smokes from his vest pocket and tamped it on the back of his fist. Both women scowled as if at the thought that he might light up, which he did. He wagged the match out and dropped it on the floor. He didn’t care whether there was no smoking. He didn’t give a good ******* whether there was no ****** old ladies and shooting smack. The old rules no longer applied. The ‘dog’ had changed all that.

1.MY MOTHER WOULD STAND IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR AND PAINT HER LIPS RED FOR A MAN WHO WASNT MY FATHER.

2.MY BEST FRIEND STOLE HER MOTHERS LIPSTICK TO IMPRESS A BOY AT SCHOOL AND THE NEXT DAY SHE CAME INTO CLASS WITH A FAT LIP.

3.THE BEAUTIFUL BOY FROM MY FIRST PERIOD CLASS FRESHMAN YEAR BROKE MY HEART WITH LIPSTICK STAINS CRAWLING UP HIS JAW.

4.THE INSULTS ON THE BATHROOM STALLS WERE WRITTEN IN BLOOD RED LIPSTICK.

5.MY GEOMETRY TEACHER USE TO SNEER AT ME WITH SCARLET LIPSTICK ON HER YELLOW TEETH.

6.THE GIRLS IN MY FAVORITE BOOKS ALWAYS MADE ME CRY. THIER RED LIPS STILL HAUNT ME.

7.WHENEVER I’D TAKE IT OFF MY LIPS WOULD STILL LOOK PINK AS IF YOU’D SPENT HOURS KISSING THEM.

8.WHENEVER I THINK OF RED LIPS I THINK OF THE SCENE IN ****** WHERE HUMBERT IS ******* HIS LITTLE NYMPHET IN A DESPERATE ATTEMPT FOR HER TO STAY AND HER RED LIPSTICK IS SMEARED ON HER MOUTH AS SHE STARES UP GLASSILY AT THE CEILING

8.WHEN YOU FINALLY GOT OFF  MY BROKEN BODY THAT NIGHT MY RED LIPSTICK WAS SMEARED ACROSS YOUR CHEEK. YOU PULLED ON YOUR PANTS AND ZIPPED YOURSELF UP . YOU THUMBED THE RED MESS ON YOUR CHEEK AND SMIRKED AT ME AND SAID. “GOD I LOVE THOSE RED LIPS"

He is hot and ***** and menacing
like the naked flame of sexuality
But ah, the girl has cravings
He is dangerous and a threat, maybe
A few ***** dreams to fulfill
But ah, the girl played with him

He might be filthy, in fact
A love affair so low, so black
like Lo and Humbert on the car
She is confused but not abused
Very different things, these two
Try to make her a victim
she refused

She is fatherless
She killed him before he could **** her
So Daddy comes to save the day
She has a hole in her heart
He drinks from her fountain
of youth, of blood

And they go around, they dream on
Sad sad dream by wire
Giving both of them life
Her parents would choke and so would
his wife

She didn't die and he didn't ****.
They simply carried on with their lives.
Now they chat on Signal like old friends
with a past to hide, both of them

there is a word used for us,
a phrase for our situation.

lo-li-ta.

was i your annabel, humbert?
your first,
in preparation of your very own lo,
your dolly, your lover?
did you care for me, really?

(of course not.
you were fourteen.
i was six.)

did you understand what you were doing?

(no, that's preposterous.
you were a young teen,
an adolescent,
with hormones.

i was the smiling,
unsuspecting
object of your clumsy,
confused affections.)

do you care about me now?

(nope, wrong again.
you have moved on, after so many years.
i no longer know you,
your face,
your name.)

did you ever spare a second thought
to the bright young child
you corrupted so early on
in both your lives as you grew?
did you dwell on thoughts of her
late into the night,
contemplating her fate?

do you know me?
would you recognize me,
if we passed on the street this very day?
would i be easily picked out
in a group of girls all my age and complexion,
plainly marked by the ever-darkening
stain you left on my soul,
my mind,
my body
so many years ago?

i have forgotten you,
your face,
your name,
yet you haunt me with re-emerging flickers,
flashes of memory
forgotten to have ever existed.

for so long,
you have stayed hidden,
shrouded in the fogs of distant,
intentionally buried images.
but now you're struggling, humbert,
fighting your way to the surface,
messing with my mind,
my entire sense of who i am,
altering my perception
of the accepted and the tolerated.

perverts beget perverts,
so they say.
and i, better than any other,
know that you are,
indeed,
a pervert.

so what, dear humbert,

will

     that

          make

                me?

****** grew up
she got herself a man
and a disability card
****** grew up
and she's not yours anymore

****** grew up
her life has changed
did you take advantage
not of her age
but of her winter?
Did you want her locked in your cell
was it convenient for you?
Well, the winter's gone
She's not the girl of your dreams
She's the woman of your desires

****** grew up
but always in your heart
always in my heart
the girl she was

but you can't take it anymore
the fact she grew up
it was going to happen
as soon as she left winter
and you were summer
but now the summer's burning
and you are not the flame

the beautiful, deadly winter
the place where she lived
the comfy, White walled, mind crowded Winter
where she still lives
but now put a handful of pepper
and a handful of flames!
would you take it better
if summer had a girls' face?

It was nice, keeping me in a jar
It was nice, helping me out
what were you?
a wolf? a friend? a ghost?
true love? My Humbert Humbert?
all of this? and even more?

Did you really know me
(because you do)
did we build something more
on Spanish lessons and kisses by wire
did I lead you on
well, I'm partly guilty
and not guilty at all!
we were friends! not lovers anymore!

****** grew up
but always in your heart
always in my heart
the girl she was

What light do you throw to yourself?
You are not guilty of your feelings
but you must abide...
I cannot, either, forget our past
But I must move on...

****** never grew up
but she's not yours anymore

Friend
or
foe?

She is captivating:
She is my pet,
She is my fire,
My little nymphet.

Annabel, dearest, of sea-word waves,
Of sandcastles torn down by hungry waters.
Even now, the scepter of my passion
Stands at attention with memory.

As Humbert ages, his desire stays
Grown ladies don’t suffice.
As he dreams of Annabel in sea-word waves,
Nymphets become his vice.

But I am no liar--I am no ******
Ladies and gentleman of the jury, be calm.
And recognize that Humbert’s eyes
See your every qualm.

Nevertheless, she is captivating:
She is my pet
She is my fire
My little nymphet.

to stay young in your heart you first should have one
and you better fill it up with some love
just a bit
because love is the secret ingredient
the pursuit of justice without love makes you cruel
the pursuit of truth without love makes you a heckler
the pursuit of god without love makes you a bigot
the pursuit of beauty without love makes you Humbert Humbert
power without love makes you a tyrant
honor without love makes you arrogant
wit without love makes you cunning
work without love makes you tired
care without love makes you brusque
talk without love makes you annoying
seriousness without love makes you boring
tenderness without love makes you mawkish
friendliness without love makes you fake
so
you better spice things up with some love
just a bit

Just a cool stone falling from the sky. A parachute smoking Parliament Lights coasting the real world that was passing it by. Coaxing a kettle to observe kashrut law but tamely give it time and it'll start handling the swine in the huge sunlight of Williamsburg's Southeast side. It will learn to pedal its parlor tricks in order to survive.

The tabloids had the story neatly bundled up with a news team in their 3-floor flat. Bubble-wrapped and packaged with plastic. Two new reasons to draw a truce to the agonizing and circuitous chasing of the playground muse. Beautiful warmed cerise porcelain skin intertwined by the golden threads worth never ever choosing to blink again. Beautiful like imaginary childhood sword fights among the assurance of our towering grandparents. Beautiful as the vintage polaroid blur of a person whose city slept itself into the sea. She slept herself into the sea.

From the sacred realm of the many desk drawers, lintels, cupboards, and closets where so many objects of misdirection, confusion, and memory appear out of 25¢ rings, faded business cards, nameless sentimental must-haves, four or five photographs that are never looked at, three or four leather cuffs, brass knuckles, a sailor's compass, 12 cigarettes, and two empty cigar boxes of stuff that is home to even lesser known finer sentimentally necessary stuff.

The commoner takes no notice of these fantastical theorems or the promulgating tantrummers in the sweaty cobblestone streets where in the sarcasm of a daydream, he the dreamer sleeps here yet he's awake in July the Fourth, Eighteen Seventy-Three, Independence Day or though it would seem. The narrator who is played by Humbert Humbert constantly fidgets with a steel 6-shot revolver, he drops it multiple times while his eyes are stricken with the brightest shine from the sheen off a knife in the hands of the stranger's while he shuffled and whined.

Inside the shells of flightless birds there are always the tormented ears echoing the screams of the children that they hurt. Who will never gait through wild strawberry fields or understand that everything is only as real as we choose to feel.

She's got her own unique
Perspective on Humbert Humbert
The great gentleman
Who killed the savage polar bears of the Arctic

I'd be lying if I said I didn't understand
Because tied charm and sweetness
In her little frilled socks
Is more than boys can offer

So, let's talk about our demons
And the glasses on your nose
Because one day she woke
And was suddenly grown up

Those halcyon days of yore
Lost forever like Lenore
And Leda and her godly swan
Forever come, forever gone.
Rough beasts in their hour slouch
But to flop upon the couch,
While memory mixes with desire
In the soul's broke-down empire.
Behold the smile of Ozymandias
(Do you wonder who he is?)
The preserver and destroyer?
Or maybe an ambitious lawyer?
Or the fearful handful of dust
That we wish we didn't trust?
Meanwhile the ominous moving finger,
Of truths unalterable the bringer,
Writes and then moves on,
Bitter tears to spawn.
Then there was the heel weak
That didn't get dipped in the creek
And anger over loss that prods
Both loving men and watchful gods.
The skull you hold--alas poor who?
Keep it cool, I knew him too,
Him and his considerable jest--
Some among us are so blessed.
Now in his grave he rests indeed
Where all our paths, alas, must lead;
Except, perhaps, for Humbert Humbert
(Remember that salacious old pervert?)
Scheming to get with his nymphette
In ways impossible to forget?
Outside at night J.J. compares streams
One more sibilant, or so it seems
And discusses Plumtree's potted meat
Ending up with "Yes, oh Yes my sweet".
Aroma from the petite madeleine
Reaches to where recollections begin
Of magnificent asparagus spears
And lesser events of long past years.
But for all that, for every bit of that, Stan
A man is still every bit a man
So get it together and get off the can
And make yourself a brand new plan:
The glowing time of midwinter spring
Has always been its own kind of thing
Don't be a gentleman in that good night
Get down with the program and put up a fight.
Come out strong like a red, red rose
And keep on punching until it snows.

That silly smile you give
With your deep red wine lips
The bubblegum chatter you oblige my days with
They craft out symphonies of mayhem incessently

The jet black ocean dreamers eyes
That blush out the moon in its prime
And once eyes meet
A smile trudges along and greet

Beneath the smooth black sheet of hair
Eyebrows sharpened and with a smiley wink
Th raging velvet satin black hair
That flow like ink out of ****'s imagination

The slender fingers you swing
Look like an aussie serpentine
The incessent wandering eyes
That twist and take you for a ride

The cheeks that radiate with hues of pink
Its like cherries perched on a rosy sheet
Your face is like a razor blade
Melts away the expression it drains

Your face reanimates and moves like the moon
As the sun goes goes only to reappear
You are eternally here
You sparkle along and shine like a precious gem


Your changing mood
Your face expresses like the phases of moon
It Keeps a little beuty
And sometimes a shimmer of mischief

Someday somewhere maybe you will see a snowflake
And someone somewhere might drown in those eyes
Everywhere you go.. You leave a little piece of yourself behind
You envy of davinci, the muse of humbert
Like a dagger with a crystal glaze
You will give cinderella a run for her fame

When Charlotte Haze allowed into her home
A monster in unassuming white linen pajamas
Could she have known what he would do
To her daisy-fresh girl, lying among the lilies?

As she bathed in sunshine on the golden shores
Of Hourglass Lake, could she have known
Where his mind was, with the child sent away
Nuptial solitude invaded by his maddened obsession?

Before Mrs. Haze-Humbert left the world,
She found the confession he wrote on silk ribbons
Meant to tie around her neck and then the child’s hair--
Yet her first concern was of how she had been betrayed.

As Charlotte lay dying on the hot concrete
Did she wonder if she might have seen it coming--
Her demise, foretold by his fantasies
Of violence towards her, of brutality for the child?

Which her last thoughts cast towards:
The orphan she now left behind?
Or her own aching heart,
Torn with jealous rage between her love of the girl
And the infidelity of a husband gone astray?

11 - lonely weird starving loyal obsessive
12 - denial rejected fighting mask all over me
13 - I explode, cannot hold no more. Hell begins.
14 - emo, doubtful, open. Wounds, scars of the soul all over.
15 - a pro, a loser, a loner. About to get lost. Over me, charms and curse.
16 - a wallflower in flowery shirt. Tranxilium pills. Hospital angels, a survivor in the make. Breathing slowly the air of life.
17 - at a fight, Courtney Lovesque. Afraid, angry, in love. Wounds bleeding, destroy my world. I walk, without aim. Sinning deep. Am I aware?
18 - I break down, no one picks up my pieces from the floor, so I have to do it on my own. Fearful, psychotic, fake, unable to breathe. Enigma to myself, cannot touch my flesh.
19 - the nebula grows, my mind drowns, to reach shores. Obsessive, perturbing, odd, dependent, byproduct of what?
20 - I've been polluted for years. This is the consequence: I break, once again. Seas of loneliness and meaninglessness.
21 - the truth spills out, cannot sleep with a corpse for life. I try to reach my core, at once. The word comes: schizotypal (not surprised at all)
22 - Humbert Humbert knocks again, and like a never dead nymphet I greet him. We fall in love again, silently, coyly, mysteriously. Pink haired spinster confused happy healing slowly do not disturb.my mind strangles me, but I am strong!
23 - my head sparkles in pink and so does my heart. My pen shakes. I laugh. Frisky, dubitative, poet, free.
24 - after the travel, I almost heal...

Nice thoughts
of thawed nights
sustaining
slowly culminating
-and therefore
ending- in
Emily's goblin
bee stinging
finally; French
Humbert finding
his tertiary Annabel:
American trash

I see waves
and candy-filled holidays
I see beach *****
and florescent seafoam
I see barely clad soccer moms
playing in the surf
with their children
I see Humbert
eyeing the teenage girls
I see the beauty
of an Asian sun
I see bikini ties come undone
I see predilection
and his friend, ignorance
I see the same social distancing
by the color of one's skin
I see newfound paranoia
I see the old pleasure
and pain
I see a broken whole
in a mere afternoon walk
on the shore

Welcome to
the empirical sand

What you see
is what you get

Tiago's words
cut like knives
but oddly now
they make me feel right

Tiago's words
are way too much
but I scratch
I can see where possibly I am

They soak me like an emergency
They are made of three quarters pain
And the rest pure life.
Maybe Tiago is right.
His words are like light
In such a pitch black night

You could be using me
playing with me
A non-loving Humbert
for this ever nymphet
you'd be