I met her on a narrow street of old Verona
Her beauty’s magical, her name was Lady Mona
She rolled a cigarette between her diva fingers
A little cherry smoke around her gently lingers

She had a long deep fire-coloured autumn hair
That with the wind dance as if out of very care
Her eyes are brighter, gayer then azure sapphires
Two little diamonds that can start unholy fires

Her ******* are full of life, the sweetest goddess milk
It taste like childhood memories wrapped up in silk
The skin – an undiscovered lands of sinful wild
It sends you on a trip so rough yet very mild

She was so picturesque, a genuine sugarbomb
Like rays of sun that dazzle through a naked palm
I pray thee, Jupiter, align the heaven stars
And let me be the one who strikes of her guitars

Wish I could walk to her and ask her dearly out
I feel so brave yet nervous, want to scream and shout
I want to spill it out, express my inner passion
But that’s not me behaving in such crazy fashion

Hell to the no! I go! I’ll spit my fire lines!
I am a blonde! I curse those stupid *** designs
I’ll offer things to her, I promise I’ll pushy
****, I am gonna offer her my cola *****

If men be ***** models, I shall be one too
I have one in my mouth – a nasty point of view
If men can flirt and conquer, so can ******* I
This Aphrodite’s taken, she is only mine

I walk to her, approach her like the mighty Taurus
Rehearse my lyrics, shuffle through my love thesaurus
I smell perfume – ambrosia, nectar, lemonade…
Formation, hold up, queen of… ******* Lemonade..?

“What is the name of thee, do tell me, pretty dear
Just like the beauty goddess you to me appear
By any chance you are one of the youthful Graces?
Be careful, darling, I can see your leather laces”

I’ve been counting stacked bricks
running my hands over the grout,
tracing each corner with my fingertips,
building them up to cover my doubt.
You could marvel at the beauty in the stone,
completely ignoring that it fully insulates
it keeps all out and ensures you’re always alone,
can’t even slip through the cracks or the grates.

I was dying to get out from where I was in,
oblivious to my own paradise,
with a tongue in cheek and **** eating grin,
ignoring all the ways words can slice.
I’m always left with empty hands
and your court is overflowing with *****,
a simple truth no one understands;
there is no life beyond Verona Walls.

I’m inspecting crumbling support beams,
running my hands and my skin catches a splinter.
It’s not as structurally sound as it seems,
but the continuing construction it does not hinder.
What do you even label an impenetrable wall,
is it a friend or is it a foe?
Do you judge it on it’s length or if it’s tall,
I guess only the person on the other side will know.

I was waiting to escape my own dwelling,
unaware of the safety it always could bring,
could I ever return home, there is no telling,
but the consensus is a no that can sting.
I’m aimlessly drifting among the sands,
and you mistake my pleas as cat calls,
a simple truth no one understands;
there is no life beyond Verona Walls.

How can you know if the grass is more green,
if you cannot even glance to the other patch?
It could be more vibrant, or just more clean,
or it could just be a perfect match.
When you know every corner and every nook,
you can’t help but feel that you’re Iocked in a cage.
Maybe I’m dismissive and should take another look,
I mean sometimes you have to re-read the same page.

I’ve seen that time keeps going on
and that our lungs continue to breathe,
but the blue skies and sunshine are gone,
I’ll never forget the day it chose to leave.
I’ll cling to all crumbs and strands,
ditch rivers and streams to chase waterfalls,
‘cause no one ever understands
there is no life beyond Verona Walls.

Telephone wires are tangled in the trees tonight
and the stars are copper colour,
as if scattered from a fountain
and Romeo is calling from beneath the balcony
of the Capulet family in Verona,
trying to get reception-

but the receiver is busy
moving on, and growing up-

Juliet, the girl he is calling, has a new phone
that she doesn't trust with unfamiliar numbers,
and his is listed 'unknown'

Unsent messages: "goodnight
"goodnight- parting is such sweet sorrow,
that I shall say good night till it be morrow."

The story of the star-cross'd lovers was no tragedy at is end.
Nobody died, nobody had to pretend
to die. They rarely think of one another now,
only from time to time do they wonder 'what if'
or regret the absence of a real goodbye.

Romeo never got the chance to defy the stars
Juliet never got the chance to contemplate him cut out in them
and neither of them got the chance to commit,
and neither of them took a chance with suicide.

Telephone wires in trees, copper stars-
-ghosts, wished on, shooting, burning far, far away-

Unspoken words: "some consequence
yet hanging in the stars,
auspicious stars"

(the fairest of them, he'd once found in her eyes)-
no reception, nothing received.
In this love story, nobody dies.

It is remembered as any other night before.
It was not long until where Romeo had come and gone
he'd left behind just a flicker of a frisson
in memory, growing distant,
gradual decay, and then
he was nothing more than threads to weave
the patchwork of a dream,-
hard to recall, a close call,
a near miss, a could-have been-
but it was harder, with time, to believe it was ever
the real love she yet knew nothing of
at the keen age of only thirteen.

It was Paris she fell for. The two were to marry
and for her bouquet that day, the flower she chose
to carry- for their romance and sweetness-
was the rose, and in her vows, she spoke of her love
being boundless and deep as the sea,
and infinite. All the wishes he'd made on stars
and coins in fountains had come to be.

Spoken words: "Have I thought long to see this morning's face..."

So many saved lives and one love lost and
a glooming sort of peace settled over
the star-cross'd streets of Verona.

You've poisoned your blood.
I'll stab myself for love.

We've had our share
of false endings.
But somehow, this feels so real.

Verona's in our hearts
although we're worlds apart.

We're giving up on life, not love

Two young souls lost to eternity
Destiny can be cruel sometimes.
-But not near as cruel as family.

In fair Verona where Will set the scene
Belle Fortune moves the markers up and down.
Two households both alike in dignity
Fiercely compete for fear of losing ground.

When Juliet saw Romeo at the dance
Events were set in motion that, perchance,
Would see fair Juliet as our Romeo’s bride
but ultimately result in her suicide.

With Tybalt and Mercutio both dead,
And Capulet and Montague estranged.
Young Paris sought fair Juliet to wed
not knowing of her loss of maiden-head.

Romeo was banished for his crime,
a sin for which a peasant would have died
Their two households, joined because they wed,
remained divided by their foolish pride.

Summer’s fierce heat shimmered in the air,
oppressive in the absence of a breeze.
With Friar Lawrence’s help, Romeo’s girl played dead,
as if struck down by some unknown disease


Romeo , in Mantua, heard that his Juliet
Lay dead amongst the sleeping Capulets.
A draught of deadly poison he obtained
So they might sleep together once again.

When Romeo met Paris at her tomb,
Words led to swordplay, leaving Paris dead.
Would not the world have been a better place
if Romeo had kept it sheathed instead?

Unshriven, Romeo drank the poison down-
the only son of Montague now dead.
Perchance just then fair Juliet revives
Bereaved, she took his Dirk to bed instead.

Authorities, arriving at the scene,
could only mourn a brace of kinsmen lost.
Capulet and Montague were reconciled
Their amity bought at a fearful cost.

How steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are
For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,
And O how salt and bitter is the bread
Which falls from this Hound’s table,—better far
That I had died in the red ways of war,
Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,
Than to live thus, by all things comraded
Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.

‘Curse God and die:  what better hope than this?
He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss
Of his gold city, and eternal day’—
Nay peace:  behind my prison’s blinded bars
I do possess what none can take away
My love, and all the glory of the stars.

She always looked at herself in the mirror as if she was looking at a familiar stranger. She would never know what to say or how much eye contact to make and so, she would look at her arms instead and tug at her clothes in haste.

But she always noticed something uncommon in the refection of herself in her eyes. It was very different, the way she looked at her like as if she knew more than anybody has ever known about her. But they did not know each other for long. Two weeks they spent together when she was visiting Verona and after that, four months of writing letters to each other. "I woke up thinking of you this morning. The walls reminded me of you, my feet on the floor felt like my skin against yours and even my coffee tasted of you." she once wrote in a letter and those were the most beautiful words anyone had ever thought about her. She found herself melting into her words, those deep eyes and just her existence but she would never let her know; she would hardly admit it to herself. "Darling, people are abstract. The things that you love about me might not be a part of what makes me tomorrow." she would remind her, every time.

Most times she would read the letters over and over again. Some parts even more than the others like this one, "Weddings are such beatific affairs, apart from the moulding uncles, aunts and their unhappy looking partners, dwelling in their grey clouds of eternal loathing. Except that, I love weddings. I danced all night at Patric's reception last night and oh, you know how I can't dance without breaking a bone or two; you saw me that night outside Al Pompiere. Turns out, I dance fantastically once I have a bottle of Sauvignon blanc in my system! My love, how I wish you were there with me at the joyous occasion. Also, I dreamt of you in a white wedding dress, while I sat alone when the music was soft and all the lovers danced unaware of realities, as if in a state of hypnosis. My dear, I could die in that moment for I had seen in my mind the most incomparably magnificent imagination." She always felt unsure of how she exactly felt about those words and how she would reply to that letter. She might have told her that it was sweet of her to write those words but she knew that she felt so much more than that. She had never imagined herself in a wedding dress before and that evening after reading her letter, she closed her eyes and she pictured herself in a white gown and it was as if she grew in her thoughts and her mind opened up to new possibilities that scared but excited her. She made her feel like she was introducing her to herself and that now every time she looked in the mirror she saw a little more of her each time.

She was dusting her bookshelf when her letter arrived that afternoon. She sat on the couch, cross legged while she very patiently opened the envelope, unfolded the paper and started to read. She sounded disheartened and melancholic. "It is not that my love for you depends on the feelings that you reciprocate or that what I feel is conditional but my love, when I was sitting at the coffee shop today going through the letters you have written to me over time, I saw them as if with new eyes. I felt like you were so disconnected. Each one sounded like you were forcing the words onto the paper. Darling, your words lacked you in them, it lacked the meaning that I have seen in your eyes therefore I know for sure that it exists but I am in a state of confusion and paranoia. My mind is consumed in thoughts that you don't trust me yet and that you think I am one of those people that you talk about who call you pretty. On the other hand I wonder, then why would you keep writing to me after every letter I sent you? I don't know what is going on in that fascinating mind of yours but love, do you feel like you are wasting your time on me? I wonder, if you do think that then am I wasting my time? I feel disorientated today...but I hope I find clarity in the next letter you send me."

That was the last letter that she ever sent her and she never replied to it. She overdosed on her antipsychotic medication , the night after she received the letter. They found her in her bedroom midst a pile of journals, clothes and painted canvas boards. They also found several letters that she wrote to herself and replies to the letters that she sent to her own address, as if she was talking to herself.

She always looked at herself in the mirror as if she was looking at a familiar stranger. But she always noticed something uncommon in the refection of herself in, her own eyes.

I once almost cursed
the final performance
of a wonderful play I
had the fortune of being
a part of it

The play was Romeo and Juliet on Verona Street
Set in the 1930’s
I didn’t do anything important
Carried two bodies
Got in a fight
Smuggled some beer
Called a mob boss
Delivered a package
and
Investigated two dead bodies in
mime

but waiting on my final role
during the final performance
of this oh so wonderful
production I reached out to
a friend of mine (his name was
Paul but he played the Prince)
and told him

“I’d love to direct
MacBeth”

He did a double-take
Asked me what I said

I said again

“I’d love to direct
MacBeth”

“You mean the Scottish
Tragedy?”

I held my mouth in shock
I knew better
That name was cursed

Paul told me all was not lost
there was a way to reverse the curse
just listen close he said

Take your fingers in a peace sign
Spit between them
Swear (I said “*******”)
Turn around one,
two,
three times
Then leave the dressing room
And come back

I did all
and Paul was relieved
but Romeo chimed in
“well you know we have to circumcise you right?”

Paul added
“Yeah, with a Claymore!”

Don’t ever wish me luck,
I might break my leg!

I still want to direct MacBeth
and to show I’m serious I even
bought the script!

All that’s left is to get a stage,
and some money, and some
actors and maybe some talent
to go with my almost obnoxious
amount of luck

For what it was tell me anon
Lest my heart turn and run
Away from Verona, Cursed land
That else was dealt a Wounded hand
In gloomy streets do shadows cry
For the Love of my life that did Die
Deep in her Earthen bed
From her breast drew red
By her own lovely manner
So down came the War banner
And so in quiet despair
With a quick, desperate Prayer
I lay down next to her in the tomb
And return to the Mother's womb

O come
gentle persons all
and listen to the woeful tale
of an unfortunate lover

1
I pitied Cinderella
and knocked at her door
when everyone was away
and I sang:
Come, run away with me
and I shall look after you -
all the days of my life
all the days of yours

Get lost,* she said.
I’ve a premonition
of glass slippers
and Princes and castles

2
And so I went to fair Verona
to see if Juliet would
give me her hand
but it was her father
who showed me the toughness
of his servant’s hands

3
And ah, I went to Rapunzel
and I said:  Oh, let down your hair
and I’ll come to you;
and I’ll find a way for both of us
to run away to better lands


Get lost,  she said
You don’t look like a man
who can afford to get
me the best shampoo
and golden diamond-studded hairclips -
new ones everyday
for my hairdo

4
And so I waited
for Cleopatra
till Brutus and the conspirators
stuck their daggers into Caesar
and I went to her mansions
but the guards seized me and they said:
You ever heard of Cleopatra’s needles?
Where’d you like us
to stick them in you?


5
and so, desperate,
I went to **** myself
back in Verona
in the family crypt of the Capulets
and woe is me -
I really don’t know why -
but I’m thrown into prison now
*‘for the ****** of two’

veins of my fingers in riots of blossomed colours
like threads made of lilac, lavender, blues and leafs.
for the blues are essences of the Elysian skies,
while lilacs, lavenders and leafs were stolen from an old man's farm

every dawn the sunlit blue wept for the docile stars' hide
I knock my knuckles red and wild, like the raspberries from the monsieur's farm
my chin against the beige, I gaze to where the magpies talk too loudly on the garden moist
swollen and offended by the loud chirps of boisterous dins, the grouchy neighbour cry.

I fill my baskets with wild things and papers,
I have cheese and juices, fruits and sweet carrots.
I have peach trees on my nails for jam
I have cherries in my toes for pie
I have snows in my lapin's soul for some ice creams
I have poppies in my worn pants for a good sight
And there's even vineyards of all Verona in my mind

the ribbons on the hat loom into the gardens' tunnel;
I have herb gardens, I have secret gardens 
And I have my old books and pens in there.
when my laces are riven, the embroidered flowers are not.

the canvas shoes is painted in petrichors and soil
my dresses go tattered, sewn with patches
into the vines, thorns and russet throats I lilt and leap
against smells of rustic wood pencils and redolent flowers
There, under a green willow is where to sit and devour wisdom
and to drink some saccharine wine with mon lapin and maybe some picnic pies.

The abominable tremors will be gone,
My morn soul diving into fairy pools of sensuous europhias.

Shakespeare was always fond of tragedies.*
From the star-crossed lovers of Verona,
Romeo and Juliet,
to the revenge-stricken prince of Denmark, Hamlet.
Sometimes I wonder
if he was the author of our fate,
for our love has slowly become a tragedy.


(k.p.)