Rp Verlaine 

Poetry

 

My Eye, the Crow

 

Thousands of miles traveled 

the image of a giant crow 

we’re not allowed to photograph 

on the prehistoric cave 

 

when the faint etching 

leaves its cavernous walls 

to become living air 

 

I do not exhale 

until I’m back home 

and the mirror turns black 

 

with images of 

hunter gatherers 

and men with fire 

calling the gods to survive 

another angry new sun 

 

Their grasp of life 

faint as the paintings 

we left in the cave. 

 

The crow remains 

in my eyes  

alert… 

 

 

Ever present 

seeing all I cannot 

It translates to dreams. 

Insidious 

 

The long black tree branch 

around my throat 

with your name carved, 

a dream I won't mention. 

 

Another has us circled 

by train tracks above, 

around, and below at dizzying 

speeds the trains barely miss us. 

 

Yet, day dreams are worse, 

a wet fog of blank and black 

with no faces or shapes, just 

your voice calling mine. 

 

The constant sour breath 

of caves that vultures retreat to 

is everywhere and 

I can't even eat cake. 

 

Reading your letters, 

devoid of any detail, 

all facade; a bright mask, 

your world crumbling like mine. 

 

Absent A Happy Hour 

 

Last bar of the night, 

the gin and ice 

melting into fire 

 

When I feel the glow 

crawl past soulless mirth 

faint laughter, disembodied 

like mirrors in forfeiture 

 

We minus one 

is the joke 

I tell 

 

Recalling 

conversations 

cut by half 

our parlor trick with 

words half true 

 

“Pretend I don't 

exist like always” 

she said 

 

Cutting off replies 

with deadly sarcasm 

that never wanted one 

 

I spend most nights 

drinking alone, 

absent a happy hour 

 

taking one last drink 

before the lacerating 

cold goes through wounds 

with a death whistle

 

In Tongues Our Own 

 

We speak in codes of I want, 

I need. 

 

A sure fix, a sweet cure, 

a double take. 

 

Past the first false glance, 

looking back. 

 

Our mirrors filled with cracks  

echoing lost light. 

 

Tell our story half true in all its 

fragmented parts. 

 

Each kiss a novel approach 

we will rewrite. 

 

In a series of beds, alleys, bars, 

or abandoned trains. 

 

To part like feral dogs in 

shallow streets of ruin. 

 

Asking only to be wanted 

longer than each retreating day. 

 

The Bat 

 

I swear the lone bat 

passing my yard each night 

knows I, too, seek flight. 

 

The moon and I, 

both needing the bat 

to measure darkness. 

 

Drunk, I toast the bat 

with an empty glass, 

but careful words. 

 

Each night the novel 

grows longer to finish, 

sees the bat’s shadow 

 

Outside the human 

and the supernatural 

are signs, are warnings 

 

The divorce papers  

I wave as my friend passes, 

pauses, and leaves me 

 

The bat does not come 

many nights in a row, 

but the moon knows my tears.

 

Rp Verlaine, a retired English teacher living in New York City, has an MFA in creative writing from City College. He has several collections of poetry including Femme Fatales Movie Starlets & Rockers (2018) and Lies From The Autobiography 1-3 (2018-2020). Recently Rp’s work has been featured in Punk Noir, Ygdrasil, The Dope Fiend Daily, and Runcible Spoon. Bienvenue au Danse, Rp.

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