Felique Dupré in the Haunted World: Among the French Cymbalists


(symbol.crash)

She has strolled the
twenty yards among
the desperate Italians
who sleep on fine couches
beneath that crummy hotel
over Washington Square.

The wind as a Southern Storm
lifts her up to the land of
wildflowers and Irish seascapes.

Flemish belles wring

A clarion call!
An armistice! And
Felique is alone on a
subway that goes
nowhere.

As surely as the clock ticks,

Just as surely there is a way
to escape the Village

But for Felique, whose anguish
has never been televised

And whose skirts are off the rack

There is no escape to money
and romance.

 

This poem was first posted in March 2015

 

Poem and Image Rob Goldstein (c) 2015 All Rights Reserved

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The Jesus of Insurrection

The Jesus of insurrection

ascends from the flames

of Gehenna,

He walks on waves

in black and white

He leaves fingerprints

on my lips,

flames leap

to absolute green

He settles and waits.

Events condense as fog.

I wear my reality as tight

as skin; the slightest

break will kill

me.

RG 1986-2015-2018

1.14.17 3:44AM

Tu Sicaria Prod Beauty Brain — Love it

La Reina Rata

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Ecstatic evisceration.

After an afternoon of art drop off in Brooklyn followed by cuddling with Eric and falling asleep during crime shows, I’m now up in the middle of the night having a protein bar and being amused by a combination of King Of The Hill reruns and zombies of the past trying to affix their names and little not-actually-much-to-tell allusions to online pictures of me and my husband at a gallery opening. They  say never read the comments. But sometimes it’s funny.

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