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Marco May 19
Like a car accident, the crashing
of a seed into soil
(from there comes an offspring -
at 9, she wants to be like you)

your weeds rising into the air
ready to cover a whole field
with its fragrance

and shooting
your shot toward the sky,
the bloom of this flower
nodding its head in the sun,
entranced by its visions and
green power

There are no mirrors in your way
so you wouldn't know but
Richard -
you are so beautiful.
Marco Dec 2020
Has the pain
not been enough
after I left you,
crawling on skinned hands and knees,
ribcage open,
heart bare, bleeding out,
exposing the shallow grave you dug
for yourself
to nestle and rest in
forever, for
as long as I breathe?
Just below the torn,
worn skin,
barely concealed and ever present,
never to be forgotten for you are,
still,
alive in my head

Death carries
no meaning here,
where you
and I
lay,
on our battlefield of blood spilled
and souls lost,
minds lost,
bodies lost in the abyss of
man’s darkness and
cruelty.

The depth of hatred can
only be matched to
the depth of love,
two halves of the same,
in your blood and mine
we lie as one.

Never reach for me again.
Marco Dec 2020
Clad in plaid and leather, silver
drenched in blood
fingers gracefully extended
to pull the trigger,
jump the gun -

Back to back,
shoulder to shoulder,
hand-to-hand
combat
with each other, with the reaper

This ménage-à-trois
- brother - brother - Death -
encircled in an endless dance,
scowling like wolves,
gnashing blades like teeth,
growling like gunfire

one stretches his arm
and reaches into Hell
a sharp intake of breath, thick
like demonic blood -
his hand gripping the other one tight

by the shoulder -
handprint burnt into his flesh already
from decades of dance rehearsal,
always dancing, always getting tired -

the two as one
and the Holy Ghost of Death between,
this third, silent party
ever-observing, winding between their bodies,
slick and oily -
cunning Death is a slippery eel.

Cheek to cheek
their tears mingling
as they whisper the steps to each other,
useless reminders of
‘I’m sorry’
‘Goodbye’
‘I love you’
‘I can’t be without-’

and one! Death kicks his leg
a sharp stab to the chest,
the heart underneath slowing to the rhythm
of tango dying in the spotlight…

and two! one brother picks up the speed,
carries his partner through the routine,
an arm
elegantly draped around
a neck,
half-carried, half-dragged through this dance,
each foot-fall heavier than the one before,

and three… the violins stop screeching
their violent delight,
all eyes carefully trained on the dancers,
warm blood trickling between their lips,
barely touching,
hot breath visible in the cold black
surrounding their heads.

Death stares, shrouded in his coat.
The boys disheveled but him untouched,
a joyless grin on his pale lips,
thin brow dusted with
the sweat of exertion,
the fire in their lungs

lights a spark -

four! the violins pick up again
their strings wailing in excitement
as a hand descends from Heaven
the dancers looking up in awe,
lifting their faces to the single spotlight
illuminating their locked fingers,
rigid backs,
cheek to cheek still

and five, spinning them around
the hand makes all the blood undone
and heals their wounds
as Death lurks in the shadows, ready
to attack once more -


again - six, again - seven,
eight, nine!
their ribs broken and breath quivering,
hands still holding tight,
legs outstretched -

slowly kneeling in an embrace of pain…

pleading mouths -
‘Stay-
stay with me’
‘Please’
‘Tell me,
tell-
t-tell me it’s okay-’

But on ten, enter stage left
one who’s danced with Death half
an eternity-
he latches onto one brother,
forearm against forearm,
leaving him marked -

suddenly a new rivalry-
the dynamic changes swiftly now
and one brother, with his fists raised high,
Death wrapped around his torso,
he is poised to pounce -

ready to ****, now,
any second now,
come to Death, spin him ‘round,
lock eyes with the unthinkable-

eleven. And an arm extends -
in the flash of his own blade
Death falls to his knees,
soulless eyes glazed over, staring still,
the dancers fixed in their sight -

He goes down without applause -
the audience is shocked,
the dancers are shocked,
the violins stopped mid-stroke.

Twelve. A moment of silence for the death of Death.


A beat. And another.
The daring of a pumping heart.
Composure, posture, straightening backs,
hand in rough-skinned hand,
an air of grace and defiance
in their footwork,
set to finish this performance.

At thirteen the violins fall into
the final act -
the dancers spin and smile
painfully wide,
the audience screams and cheers,
wring their hands,
whistle like toreros

rousing Death, forgotten on the parquet,
from his curtain fall,
hands reaching, feeling into the warm
spotlight -
the spectators scream in horror,
the brothers, bowing, turn too late -

prelude -

one -
Marco Dec 2020
Poem written waiting outside the club
that my brother and I frequent
together -
scene:
a hundred mouths breathe clouds
into the biting air,
cold of a Friday night
security at the door, screaming
a sea of voices asking
"can you take me in with you? I'm not old enough"
and the growling of boys half drunk
already
my brother tall, pushed against me

Poem written at the back of the club
that my brother and I frequent
together -
and scene:
us, scouring the dancefloor together
us, drinking ***** lemon on the sidelines
us, stretching necks to see if we
know anyone in here,
half-poised to
escape
should we need to
(we don't want to see others)

Poem written standing at the bar
that my brother and I
frequent together -
this scene:
spilled on the dark, chipped wood
euro bills
sticky cocktails
nose blood
and my hand, washed
in the mix
of liquids
it is 2 a.m.

Poem written waiting outside the toilets
that my brother and I
frequent
apart -
now, scene:
him, nowhere to be found
line, endless
girls, loud and crying, laughing
and my foot tapping
nervously
to the bass that makes
the walls vibrate
and shake

Poem written in the parking lot of the club
that my brother and I
just squeezed out of -
last scene:
him, sober, hands on steering wheel
my eyes, unfocused, trained on
the electric blue of his car radio
playing our after-club mix
coming down, silently
no words between us
only deep-bassed beats
and intoxicated breath
our minds as spent
and exhausted
  Oct 2020 Marco
Emma
must I love so violently
must I love with all my blood and down to the bones
everyone
everyone
do I love
I do love everyone.
my legs give out
I’m weak in the knees
weak in the knees and I don’t even want the crying woman across the bus stop
and yet I do.
want her tears to drip in my hands like a small fountain
want to save her life, kiss her until she starts to bloom and until
all my fire is in her mouth I don’t know how to carry it on my own

it feels so heavy in the pit of my stomach and the back of my throat and the curve of my knee and in my
landscape of guts

I want
to give everyone the world
to make everyone feel loved
to be the loving person who understands to everyone
to be the
butterfly pinned to their wall like ****** Jesus on the cross
to sparkle to open their eyes to the beauty of the world
to belong to everyone
to be the saviour. to be the mother. to be love, to be love-
to be love. not to be holy
not to be God
to be love.
Marco Sep 2020
1
What is Earth but your shell?
But the sweetest comfort found in a bed of moss,
welcoming and warm,
soft dark green,
the fragrance of motherly earth misted on this everlasting pillow,
inviting you to eternal slumber -

Would you grant me just a minute,
a gently sweeping, dreaming moment of rest
under your cover of moss and twigs
(that is to say your skin and ribs)
and would you tuck me in with your rose petal lips pressed to my cheek,
your honeysuckle tongue flicking playfully as you laugh,
the sweet-voiced laughter of faeries and pixies,
as only you know how to coax out of your golden throat,
your lavender fingers grazing my jaw and eyelids, my cupid’s bow
hungrily asking for more, silently -

Here in this honeymoon suite of mosses,
the morning dew yet still shining on your nose -
a starry sky of freckles, a heaven on its own -
I lay my head in your lap as gently as a leaf on the wind,
barely felt,
barely there at all -


2
Buried deep inside,
deep, deep beneath the first and second and fifth layer of Earth,
where Mother Nature holds her own heart and takes a bite of it, too -
where Father Sun cannot reach anymore and
only roots snake through the soil,
this is where I lay and wait for your return come spring.
The shell falling asleep above me and
the fires of Earth’s core lively dancing underneath…
Here I make my bed to lie and expect in,
to humbly await as your lavender fingers take roots anew
and grow attached to your leafy body, watery yet wooden,
fragrant in the night of my soil.

When will you return to me, my heart’s desire?
To end my winter and invite spring, summer,
autumn all at once,
a raging storm of emotional seasons and none are too much to hold
for the strong Earth keeps them caged in and safe,
untouched by the outer world -
no fire or sea or thunder fit to taint them.

Please come back soon and put your elven dagger to the ravenous throat of my cold
       lonesomeness.
Marco Aug 2020
Here, starry, open road
   the promise of finding God or Yahweh or Buddha
   on the highway,
the roof down, wind in our hair and dirt,
   red sand of the canyon vast around us, setting sun and personal American dream,
   drifting further into your arms and our souls mile by mile,
the burning blue of the sky ahead, inflamed by all the reds and oranges the dying sun can
    possibly bleed,
and my hand, drifting on the driving wind,
   finds its way into your heat-swept hair, soft and dark and handsome,
   all memory of cold end of '47 erased in the face of your warmth
as we fly down the street -
   I'm sorry I only gave us six decades,
   I would have aimed for more if I'd known about your untimely nightfall…
-but this Cadillac is stolen, fast, free and green;
   wheels burning hot in their devotion to carry us anywhere,  
   the leather backseat our warm and welcome marital bed,
for this, surely, is our honeymoon -
Yes, indeed, we got engaged in that small cot in Harlem,
   said "I do" on the cool, cracked asphalt of some nightly Texan road.
You promised me forever,
   swore me eternal love & friendship in your own voice,
  with your own words -
     the sweet, darkest-soul-illuminating true Western twang of your blue-eyed,
     full-and-clear-hearted vow.
What of it now?
   Where your voice? Where your face, your knees, your hands -
   Where your shoulders made strong by carrying all of
   America?
   Where your feet glued to gas pedals and roadside sand,
   where your soles -
Where your soul but up in Heaven, surely?
   Up in Heaven…

And us - him, me, her -
   left behind, to drown in ***** or go mad with longing,
   to be forgotten by the dead.
And nothing of you now
   but highway ashes and lovesick poems, black-and-white camera roll…
inspired by Allen Ginsberg's writings about Neal Cassady
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