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Monah Mayhem

Lady From the Lake

She used to fuck them 

just to leave them.

My mother would say.

Unabashedly confess with a sly smile 

lying on the couch, legs crossed, 

smoking a cigarette, always with a look 

on her face that told you

she was getting away 

with something quite clever

And then there’s me, 

her beloved beloved bastard 

beauty orphaned at nineteen,

a swinger of birch trees

with a ravenous fascination 

for star garnets and tiny objects.

Every month for five days, 

my body reminds me 

that I am going to die

that I do not belong to a pathless wood

But I can’t seem to keep track of tomorrow

And yesterday, it never came.

Maybe it’s the way she 

reminds me of the rain.

Her voice a soft strong

And the smell of a summer storm

on hot concrete pavement

She tells me she wants it all

every drop of rain 

without any buckets or umbrellas

says it tastes like the earth & river rocks

Watch how she emerges from the water--

wet hair dripping

half baked and naked 

in the corners of Sunday morning.

She walks with the shrugging shadows 

quiet as stones in the cold bright,

a valley of stained glass hearts 

I stand next to her in the soaking street

palms out, eyes closed

imagining the cat’s triangle 

curled up under the tongue.

In a clear plastic bag tied up & left

on the sidewalk, stark white

blinded to life. We become 

what we leave behind

like strangers passing by

reminiscing about “the good ‘ol days

back when we were fly boys, doing cool things

making money for the moon”

I do not know their meaning,

but the words make my toes smile

like dancing spam and frogs in top hats

like pickled poems and empty embassies,

like old dolls with cracked chests & singing banshees

a kneeling kiss, a baptized wish

bone biting and beautiful, 

the best pleasure is to give pleasure.

And every poem is a love affair.

Character Bio

With a kiss from the gods Monah was conceived in a moment of passionate, unabashed adultery. Raised by her two shield maiden mothers, she learned at an early age to draw near to the the whispering forest, to dance with the wolves of the night, to fly with the wings of a harpy. On one sunny May day when the fates gave way, Monah was left as a young orphan with a keen sense of the unveiled world. She possesses a special ability to communicate with the souls of deceased writers and artists, and is frequently spotted having tea in some other realm with Virginia Woolf. She lives in a perpetual continuum, Galileo’s very own pendulum of life. Monah is, therefore, often unamused by societal normalities, complacent with cultural monotony, and only satisfied with the sharp breath of death.

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