Felique Dupré in the Haunted World

1.

Footsteps: an affair.

“You’re late.” says Felique.

“Ten minutes.” Marcy replies.

“I cannot kiss on an empty stomach.” Felique orders à la carte
and gazes fearfully into Marcy’s eyes.

“What bothers you my little bon-bon?”

“Nothing, Mon cher. Try these snails.”

Yet the fear remains…

“Oh Marcy!” Felique feels suddenly silly, “Will I die if I make
love to you?”

Marcy giggles, “Only If you forget to breath!”

Tragedy replaces the fear in Felique’s eyes . “Breathing reminds me
of my mother.”

“Is your Mother still alive, dear Felique?”

“I was ten. Mother chased some wild geese and drowned in the Seine. This is why my love for you is so painful. Everything reminds me of Mother, which makes me cry. Oh my poor stupid Mother!”

2.

Felique sobbed as they hopped the E Train for Harlem; she sobbed for
her poor Mother.

Fellique turned to Marcy, her face as grey as the Moon.

“I’m a troubled woman.”

“Lamb.” Marcy replied.

“I do nothing but need.”

“Lamb.” Marcy repeated.

“Have I told you of my Mother?” Felique asked.

Marcy’s head throbbed with love; she gripped Felique’s shoulders: “Did your Mother drink?”

“Wine…White.” Felique replied.

“Alcohol has wrecked your life!”

Felique offers a dry cackle: “Ah, that it was that simple my wise, merciful,
long-suffering woman. She said she loved me.”

Marcy was strong yet gentle: “Denial! Make love to me now!”

“In the road?”

“Nothing sullies those who love!”

“Not even history?”

“Lamb.”

3.

What it is about love? As if a conquered people had gathered to rewrite history.

Felique moves with the purity of a child who spies a new perception: all mothers are one Mother and the World is one big Mother

Hot tears dribble onto Marcy’s mound, whose love expels the ghost of Felique’s affliction.

“O! Que j’aille à’ la mer,” sighs Felique.

A digital photograph of an avatar that represents a young woman named Felique Dupré in a virtual Manhattan
Felique Dupré in the Haunted World

 

To be continued…

(c) Rob Goldstein 2017 All Rights Reserved

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Mr. Anguish

An
alliance
of exotic
oils
lulls me
to heat:
waxy,
pointillist,
and
drooping.
She rises
from
an erotic
tableau
of moldy
old
pornography
and begs
the gleam
In my eye
for mercy.

Mateo 2017

Steely DanAja
The Internet Archive

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Golem

For the Old Testament which I lied upon and spent the rest
of that year in Hell.

For paintings of Moses white against volcanic ash!

For Isaac who me wonder and Jacob who made me wonder; together we went to Temple where I refused to learn Hebrew and the teacher called me retarded.

For Rabbi Padol, who smoked in the Tabernacle and made the girls giggle as dust settled on the Torah, which I kissed and sneezed, and kissed and sneezed, until my Bar Mitzvah, (that ceremony in English) and later received hats and a checking account.

That Passover Sunday the dogwood was in bloom and I found
a litter of dead puppies in the front yard.

I pitched a tee-pee over the corpses and said Adonoi three times.

That year I thought of sacrifice and God’s ruthless lust for proof!

I thought of the Lamb: how he bellows, “Look what I did for you!” extending his bloody palms.

(c) Rob Goldstein, poem July 1986, image June 2017

A Flight of Ideas: Secret Obscenities

Life wept and sent me into crisis.

An arm around my shoulder, the doctor gave counsel:

He says, if I take my pills, I will forget my grief, I will be happy.

He says, the Lord is in my heart, if I search it, I’ll find him, and he’ll save me.

He says, if I climb the right steps, I’ll be normal, if I talk about it: this thing I can’t mention.

My lies are those of one who doesn’t trust, and so I fear
that unless the lying stops, I will —

become the prank who attends his own funeral, mingling
with the mourners, and whispering secret obscenities.

(c)text Rob Goldstein 1984, image Rob Goldstein 1917