.






The slim neck on the feminine beast;
the erotic trick on so sweet a treat,
took to me like a doubtful dare,
when their mirrors, descending, rolled as a pair.

Bind these hands,
these increasingly suffering hands
that have crushed the squeeze
on palest necks with ease,
whilst wishing death
for their typical demands!

Born in blood,
amidst the rancid stench
of Skid Row urine enveloping my sense,
my face was cruelly bitten and tattooed
by a maniac's angered hanger….
the result of a call girl defiled nude!

It's building,
building,
building more!
What's your name?
Where's your face?
I don't really care!
Your stare was your final act of grace!

You used to lock your doors
and raid your mother's drawers
for her drugs, perfume and lip rouge.
You've let down your guard,
growing up with short regard,
with evil near, affording refuge.

Leaky bruises, bubbling up my body sores,
make sure a devil's door
for mites to dine from inside out!
A moldy cerise burlap sac,
woven taut to my scalp, infested,
traps the voices that bang about!

My worthy place,
no higher than that of a rat
that swims pleasantly in lethal sewage,
is to drown the sorrow of a dame
whose wretched wants and Whiskey haunts,
prove to be my daily tutelage!

Mind the silent menace taking drink alone,
pondering rape in your favorite bar.
Free your selfish skin, unto me unmolested,
roaming into crimson-lit shadows
for you, for me, who was born in blood,
helping you to numb your darkest scars!








-Mark Lach

.





dry wind peels a throat
beer to cool, no ice a fool
independent flag

bikinis hold perked pairs fixed
flesh to feed my eye I need

full moon beach grilling
skinny dip reflected sky
descending Gibbous

a valley girl's desert bliss
umbrellas close at sundown

road trip to rip tide
stormy weather pounds a town
Graduation Day

over summer new lover
ice cream performs many shows

breezy lightning cloud
rolling blackouts wane in time
coats in closets wait

school kids prepare to school minds
angels push feathered clouds down

collage of color
miniskirts withdraw from view
carnival closes

lovers plan their recipes                
equinox plays on my moods

leaves fall fade and die
the sun is so shy we see
she paints her young face

noses sip apple pie scent
graves get plumage makeover

windows seal me in
chopped logs sting the lungs with smoke
the farm air breathes fog

she wraps the kitty warmer
massages create spent girls

Poplars pose in snow
dug dens crack the fragile loam
Winter feeds a fire

ice islands dot the landscape
chain on my wheels keeps it strong

mountains crack in crisp
snow blankets come in one shade
old citizens slow

Polar bears have their home
pull in tight the frigid dame

frost consumes a breath
sun's a fog in misty morn
smoke on the water

my skin sheds such heavy dress
flowers poke their top above









-Mark Lach

.







Drab and caked, the paper ached;
attention to it fled in haste.
Truant I was, when my mind forsakes
madness in ingested poison paste.


In company with all my miseries,
they push me to drink in daydreams.
Absinthe and Rum fill till rationale flees
to drown my dame in her muffled screams!


Red hair, the fire that spawned a fairy tale,
makes no appearance inside the walls I built.
Perfect breasts, unseen by this male,
become cuisine by me, the painter who killed.


Forever and a day and not one more,
I'll sing to you and read poems I wrote.
Your canvas cherished and well adored,
steals away to Heaven, your soul I smote.


This house no longer hides my secret,
setting fire to it before their invested peeks.
I could see the empty lot from my newest pet's,
from her broken attic window in one more week!









-Mark Lach

.





Royal brood and kin to be,
lock away tight in a family's shame;
a soar to fly to one who heeds,
the persistent frost of morrow's dame.
Not quick a judge in lover's trial
left in trance, otherwise beguiled.

A lofty squire amidst her bloom of youth,
rents her starry eyes then inclined to attest;
methinks with nails to scratch and hands to soothe,
one would yield, verily, at the king's solemn behest.
She dances 'round the scholars like bees to flowers
pleading her case as bare ardor dons the bawler.

In court she trusts a life's wish bestowed,
amongst scrutiny in highest forum;
to sway the survey a country's reign in the throes,
of war, caste unions, and esteemed decorum.
Audry's swoon was given no debate
in haste of the king's imposing mandate.

Forged in dour halls and cloak of dusk,
her sweet speech tongued a velvety tone;
Edmund relished waxing of his divine interest,
perceiving pure nirvana to ascend the throne.
In the throng of fell shadows resides the wicked woe
that creeps and mars, Edmund, the broken beau.

Audry took upon a winter travel,
adopting penance in a pithy soliloquy;
the heart of a potential bride be baffled,
in every breath of winter's frigid beauty.
The prince had waned sadness in her retreat
entranced in the fired embers of a hearth's rousing heat.

A robin's flight could manage no compare,
to the flutter his heart acquired in illicit romance;
a fawn's birth could subdue threats of civic warfare,
puzzling love's captors in olden trance.
In a madness born on a selfish quest,
erelong, his castle bequeathed on the whim of a redbreast.

No fairer lady to which he had given chase,
romanced fits from laughs and selfish pleasures;
remaining in the state of the Edmund's sustaining grace,
Audry was the polished jewel in august treasure.
Seeking a squire on this impulsive venture
on steeds, torches wielded, he wills with stout posture.

He was quick to meet a light that stuns,
as hooves kick up white puffs of snow;
to aid the sense and make amends,
he sought refuge in a burrow.
Like fox for fare he nursed his vim
and dreamt of her to feed his whim.

Across the glebe of Grassington's market,
on hunt for Audry at mercy of stinging winter;
they inflated bellies with Venison and snipe,
at the house of the king's regarded sculptor.
A query by firelight and syllabub to quell
with news of Audry's progress and gossip to dispel.

To renew a passion as Spring does to frozen earth,
Edmund and the squire woke in the morrow;
played a game of Draughts to savor tidings with mirth,
toasting Absinthe and perry aside a masonry window.
Attending the colloquy of woes from the room's umbra,
the host damped raw cheeks, whining of a youth's scrofula.

With the bask of the brightest star agin their backs,
they ride with the tepid throng of welled wishes towed;
whilst conquering fate with Absinthe and a fruit mix in hemp sacks,
darting boldly into the crisped shell of an arctic snow.
Edmund's lost Audry holds the future kingdom at ransom
with his dove retreating through the groves of Cherry Plum.

Fortnight in the lap of Absinthe's heavenly hold,
one hundred sixty leagues through unnamed wood;
in the vastness galloping to a lover's song, consoled,
he forged past the lanky stretches of Spruce that stood.
Wherein does Audry protect her chambered trust
that in the day of all days, this one proves the toughest.

Audry snatched a glance on the brittled shelf of a brook,
reflecting a worn and pensive gloom, bewildered;
to raise her punished frame, tackling pangs it took,
retiring deep into Bowland Forest, westward.
Audry eased into the bewitching spell of Morgan Le Fay
arrested in magic, lulled in her bosom of the faerie state.

A chaste soul; she effects a test and lure,
her counsel, in offensive union, is broken by the mage;
lays her dreams upon a rock in a mesmeric stupor,
sure to collapse his churlish heart in illusory rage.
The evil cast laden with a fit from fly agaric, schemed,
swept up an expired dream's asylum in a moonbeam.

Horses stall, heeding a lag for seemly horsemen,
in a tormenting view of an angel stricken;
swelling tears pull down Edmund's deviled curtains,
as knees sway, to and fro, till they render a bend.
To steal away her sweetened breath, smote and deceased
Audry scaled the moonbeam into an angelic sapphire sky, unleashed!







-Mark Lach

the old stone walls are still standing
though they no longer echo with sounds
of cornball jokes, bottle caps poppin’ off cokes
and the happy humming of a repaired motor
  
the old man was there when
the first car pulled in for gas  
28 cents a gallon, all fluids checked for free
spotless windshield guaranteed  
he hired that Mexican boy because he was polite
yes sir, and was the best damn 20 year old
grease monkey in the county
(hell, the state)
boy had one leg shorter than the other  
and had him a twin brother
whose two fine legs carried him that place,
somewhere between honor and complete disgrace,
called Vee-et-nam
but those strong legs couldn’t bring him home  
he come back in a box,
both his good legs blown clear off  

he hired Lolo the day before
his brother come home      
was hot as Hades at that graveside  
but he went and stood by the boy,
his sobbing mama, his sober father
and the hot hole in the caliche
where his brother was gonna spend
forever    

business was good  
the boy spent most of his time
under the hood
of Riley’s ‘51 Ford
or Miss Sampson’s Impala,
(white 1962, with red interior, clean as the day she bought it)  
Nixon beat that old boy from Minnesota  
told everybody he would end that crazy Asian war  
the right way  
but the old man had been
in those foul trenches in France,
killin’ krauts when he was 18  
and he knew there was
no “right” way  

he and the boy had many a good day
with the register cling-clanging,
mechanical mysteries being solved  
and a good hot lunch now and then
when the boy’s mama brought  
fresh tortillas and asada
or the old man would spring
for chicken fried steak sandwiches from the café

yes, many a good day

until
that hot July afternoon  
the day after we landed on the moon
when “they” came  
not from some lunar rock  
but from an El Paso shithole  
where graffiti were their psalms
and switchblade knives their toys  
“they” came,
parked their idling ‘57 Chevy in front of the bay,
and bust through the front door
with a gun and a ball bat  
both had hair slicked back
with what looked like 30 weight oil,
“they” smiled, and smelled
of beer and sweat  
“Dame el dinero! Give us the money!
Give us the money old man, cabron!”  
the old man glared at them  
the bat came down and grazed his head,
cracked his shoulder  
“they” did not see the boy with the wrench
who laid the bad ass batter out
with one righteous swing  
the one with the gun did not aim
but pulled the trigger three times  
and two of those hot speeding streams
sliced through the boy’s throat  
the shooter was through the door and burning rubber
while the boy lay bleeding red blood
on the green linoleum floor  
the old man knelt over him, helpless  
saw his eyes close a final time
while the sting of the burned rubber
was still in his nose, and the hellish screech
of the tires still in his ears  

the old man had seen the dead before
piled in heaps in the dung and mud
of those trenches, faces bloated
with their last gasps from the nightmare gas  
but he hadn’t shed a tear
in the pale pall of the dead  
until that hot July day, with a man on the moon, all those miles away
and the best boy with a wrench in the whole state, Lolo,  
silent on the floor in front of him  

they caught the shooter
(sent him to Huntsville for a permanent vacation)
the one Lolo laid out with a wrench died
on the way to Thomason Hospital in El Paso
the ambulance driver was Lolo’s cousin  
and he may have been driving a bit slow    

Lolo was buried the day they came back from the moon
right beside his brother in that ancient caliche
his mother sobbed softly, “mi hjos, mi hijos”  
both boys now cut down
her left with prayers
and memories…  
the boys at the ballpark
their first communions
the grandchildren she would not have  
and the gray graves where they
would return to dust  

the Saturday after, the old man turned 69  
when he flipped his open sign to closed that day, he  
climbed the ladder slowly, painted over his store bought sign
with new white wash,
and red lettered it with “Lolo’s”  
not a person asked
about him using the dead boy’s name  
and things would never be the same    

the old man lasted another nine years  
until the convenience store started sellin’ gas
(they wouldn’t even pump)  
his hands were stiff with arthritis
and his shoulder stilled ached from the crack of the bat  
he closed on a windy winter Friday  
yet painted the sign
a final time that very day  
nearly falling, as he made the last red “S”  
but he made it down the ladder that last time  
and saw the boy’s name in his rear view
as he drove into the winter dusk

lost horizon
daylight streams down her face
liquid it expresses her hope

a ship adrift on the open sea
with only the dump-ducks to herald her passing
her tiller tied off on a course for the Flemish Cap

deep in the rolling North Atlantic waves the
sounds of the sea begin to speak to you
they weave tales on rainswept deck
they sing shanty's on the lines for the mainsail

the sea is a living thing
with her many moods
and utter crisp beauty

in a dead calm, middle of the Atlantic
no clouds
the stars reflected perfectly off the water
and you are afloat in a sea of lights
iv never seen anything more moving

but beware my friend
she is friend and a foe
i lost a friend out on thouse endless miles
his ship adrift
tiller tied off on a course for the Flemish cap

if you go to sea
be respectful
of the grand dame
and she will show you wonders that will
capture your soul