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My coffee was cold.
Even Mondays in May made what
the Scientists,
the Politicians,
the Polar Bears feared most
appear paradoxical.
To the Brazilian girl, it's crimson fruit,
it's the precarious nature of
Spring's rain.

Her honeysuckle,
laden with Mother's Milk
never smelled more like

But to me,
it was a blissful pain,
it was a snuggled sip between
salvation and
the last word she wished she hadn't said. 

She summoned sunshine,
displacing the haunted memories of a past
which refuse to recede;
she poured hot coffee.
Seth Keplinger Nov 2020
Iron curtains summons an ominous shadow.
My best lines hound the symmetry
of her silhouette;
naked as a jay bird chasing
a crow.
Cowboy killers exhaust their sorrows
across a cracked mirror-
depression was never her Sunday best
Cowboy boots never matched the fool,
metal jacket
**** she's cold blooded,
**** she's aloof
but she's beautiful .
One hand over the fire
and her lovers face buried in the snow.
Beauty burgeons behind the pine
being behind a smoking barrel
shooting fish in a barrel-
It's been since the Ides of March that
I was blinded by her torch lights.
Since the blue moon tides of March
that we ironed out
the irony,
the wrinkled fabric
the perceived amity.
A pony of Irish,
Irish jigs, Irish shakes,
cut the rug,
walk the line
amongst the convoluted
even her diluted daisies
blossom in the snug.
The bane of their resistance
a great migration
birds of a feather,
her plume  
tethered to Engels and Marx.
Lost souls flock, and
call me "doc".
I'm the farthest thing from a doctor,
in fact, I possess the uncannier ability of not being close to anything-
with the exception of almost finding the other side:
of the page,
the corner,
La Pigalle,
where she found her confidence,
the cool side of my pillow is
potentially her worst nightmare;
where mom hid the thin mints
worse than the secrets under the bed;
the lies she fed.
My prescriptions consist of
what dopamine insist.
Elixer licks her,
won't fix her upper lip
A first kiss
A first ****
love drunk, it persists.
So we come back for the deplore.
Seth Keplinger Jan 2019
Fragmented souls
embark upon precarious journeys.
Mosey, so cozy, tip toes-ey amidst  
the nuts, the berries, her frag grenades,
all whom are lost.
I get the sense
she stimulates the local economy.
Her sixth sense
is my first sin;
subsequent Saturday night mass.
in her unique meek way.

She moves divergent
from the wandering.
Please,  I implore,
just as you sat
on the park bench
a failed attempt
at being inconspicuous.
tres de septiembre
covered in wet leaves
juggling espresso, laced
with my final exalted request-
roll up your sleeves.
cocoa skin glyphic
mushroom fields and bees knees.
Don't stop smiling.
On the eve of our
improbable introduction
after impossible instructions.
Ignore the jilt,
it was a jolt,
prompted by your voltage.
Despite all your glory
I was over caffeinated,
under compensated,
out of cahoots,
deemed arbitrarily scholarly,  
presumed clinically copasetic;
according to the nurse tying a knot  
in Dr. Martens Boots.
Kaleidoscope eyes collide
I never trusted a stethoscope,
nor the script; it
read so cryptic.
"Dowse my flaws in his amphetamines"?
Societies newest drudge,
Earth's newest quagmire.

Theres nothing flat about her earth;
What's a man do with his hands?
there's nothing meek about me
unless my heart has different plans.
Seth Keplinger Jul 2018
I keep pretending I'm alone.
Even after losing my seat
to her new prince.

it's spellbinding,  
enough to make the ole' dog wince.

I still love the sad songs
her puppy dog eyes dispense.
it was never her truth, per usual;
per his glimpse,
into the future of my demise.
I pretend to appreciate the gent in the white coat.
A self diagnosis wouldn't compromise
my vulnerability.  
Don't, she won't, undermine my competency
it lends itself to my daily routine,
I self prescribe- a precisely perplexing potency
abide, at least you tried
an unprecedented golden rule.
This wasn't premeditated,
nor an act of repetition.
We've been classically conditioned, so
I implore and drool.  

I keep pretending it's a new found happiness.
it's for the canaries,
the relievers
and deveivers.
I believe it's for the ignorant
the boring -
the people with white picket fences
and golden retrievers.
Beware of the conformist
they who did well on geometry tests
their smile so luminous  
like diamonds between her *******.

I'm a brittle leaf in autumns first frost
hanging on the edge of winters righteous freeze.
the shackled, the .22,
let it be me.  
I'm a warning sign, Cuba 1963;

I can barely sleep as it is
from this dusty room
I garner for clues inauspiciously
the obtuse path back to the life i once lived,
obstructed by the 4 seasons, for reasons, the 4 walls,
the 4 grains in this whiskey.

Life outside of her box is a bargain.
Before the flies, where my heart lies;
her highfalutin jargon.
Coping with this void gives me nightmares.
joe shakes my daydreams
they fall from my dilated pupils
and anxiously I begin to slur.
I wish he'd stop cutting his pen through the air,
reminds me of my geometry teacher,
lecturing vicariously through a sorcerer
maybe the boring one's preacher?
everyone in this coffee house likes to stare.
Seth Keplinger May 2018
Honey bee sneezes
dusty daisy, pink petal
spring convolution
Seth Keplinger Mar 2018
I've got the shakes again, and
we've lost the arts.
Caramel coffee is for trolls,  
calamities are uninvested conversations.
Your selective ignorance
are their political polls;
cocoa conundrums; coagulating
serotonin serums inhibiting innovations.
I've got the shakes again, and
we've lost the love;
you turtle dove.
Historical happy hours,
rhetorical- the ring on her finger
indigo indiscretions linger
bloom a bouquet of flowers.
I've got the shakes again, and
we've lost the respect.
Ignore Tesla, the moon;
******* by his diamonds,  
instant gratifications- new world addictions.
Hats off at my table!
Shake hands, shake social frictions.
I pump my brakes again, and
I've lost invitations;
my blinded observations.
Soulless shoes sully love,
subtle self proclamations.
Societies vicarious vices,
subliminal author's themes;
my presumption suffices.
Johnny's mother screams!
I've got the shakes again, and
I've lost my mind again;
dubious is an art of repetition.
In this war of attrition,  
monkey business is the real oppression;
***** color schemes
deter my nightlife's daydreams.
Premeditations- self induced depression.
First amend, then reprieve
a society in genocide,
murderous screaming thieves.  
I've got the shakes again, and
he's lost his midnight train of thought;
his ****** obsessions.
Espresso and ****** expressions,
prerogatives- propaganda bought;
the bad vibrations.
Battling a vertigo,
temptation i fought.
Dancing amongst the constellations;
these must be his
coffee drunken genius inspirations.
Seth Keplinger Mar 2018
They danced the bow,
an ole' burning skiff;
never taking his hands from her helm.
Did he even blink?
Blinded by the heat of her omnipotence.
He tried to discern her face proximately;
the impermeable remnants of
the flame impaired his vision .
Frère Charles couldn’t distill an elixir strong enough
to manipulate his compass’s rationale.
The ripest grapes, the deepest roots,
her herbaceous lips; his soulless old boots
laced with diffidence.
A despondent moon, a tear,
the asymmetry in her shadow.
She, whom he blindly confided in,
is painting a landscape of a fairytale.
The lily’s blossom eternally,
the dirt taste like chocolate,  
her oceans motions
propagate love.  
He’ll never know.
His imagination undulates in wildflowers,
while she swims inauspiciously
in stormy seas.
Inevitably, a slave to the wave,
he thank her forest for the oak he step.
The old oak is opinionated,
and charred.  
Heedless it seem,
full mast against the wind;
somewhere their currents will convene.
A confluence relentless and unyielding;
even Moses ponder.
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