I am tired, and I am tired of making it beautiful.  Petals flung over the edge do not soften the fall. Adjectives do not halt decay. Spinning corpses in sugar is a sticky, pointless ordeal. If I let the moonlight paint me in all her violet shades they begin to look more like bruises. A single star, a gunshot wound. I think about how small I must look from all the way up there. I think about how I won’t live past twenty.

It’s such a dramatic scene, a fanciful notion ripped from the history books by a girl who doesn't know how she’ll fit into them. There was one like her before, who dug her palms into the rails and stared out at her burning Versailles, and she wondered how it could be so cold when there was so much light. Another kisses her daughter and son’s shining cheeks goodnight, sits on the tiled floor of the kitchen with her head in the oven. There was the one who painted and broke, loved and broke, painted and loved and shattered and broke. The other flies all her life and goes down at Howland, sinks for its remainder. All of them, statues with shards of rose colored glass transfixed in their eyeball sockets.

Maybe we were made to be romantic and lovely and tragic. Maybe we have no choice but to carry these diamonds and bleed from the backs of our ankles, streak the pavement rose red. Maybe we were destined to scar everything we touch, for what is beauty without pain?

I’ll paint my nails and bite them to the beds, I’ll **** boys who are cruel by design. I’ll spin endless corpses, spin relentless circles in this frigid corner of mine.

I. The False Mirror

that's how it starts
dull and creeping.
shadows in the back of your mind.
reassuring you that the smoke
from their furious fire
is only temporary.
"Look away
lest the Light claim your eyes!".
the thing with shadows is
the more you look away
the further in
they close.
as flames roar
the only sound you hear
is a soothing song
of dominion.
until your world
is a vision
of black alabaster
where you can't tell the difference
between shadow and caster.


II. Portrait of An Owner

we take the medicine
that consumes us.
leaks through the cracks
in our spine.
dripping
we make moves in the dark.
tripping
over useless pieces
of used-to-be heart.
they say
the road less travelled
doesn't go our way.
they say
many have been led astray.
so we wait
in fear.
with bated breath
for the next hit
to keep us in place.


III. a bête noire

we were promised planes
but given straw wings
tethered to the shore.
they remind us
we can fly
but not to aim too high
or stray
too close to the light.
that we might see
what Icarus seen.
living isn't being
without a doubt
he would tell us
he didn't fly high enough.
so, for the spectacle
we'll gladly burn
alive.
belonging to none
severing ties.
that's how endings begin
bright and sprawling.

there on the scaffold
          colorful cacophonous screams emanating from workman’s coveralls  
           captivated her
           rebel in real life



engaged by her lack of hero worship    dedication to her art     the common cause
            her fire drew him to her

and so they began to weave their tapestry

it tells a story
tumultuous
traveled
torn
tragic
timeless
true

brilliant hues
life
as art
compatriots
rebels
lovers
newsreels  
public pride
personal degradation
recovery
reconciliation

back on the scaffold
             cacophony revisited

back on bedrest
              resilient resisting unceasing unaccepting


scaffold and ego deemed titanic-like         demand artistic license  uncompromising
                     crushed   crumble  disintegrate  
               lose face    credibility

turn tale
and run to the one deemed feeble
whose
spirit knows no bonds                        
      as body knows no freedom

yet
is Hercules for them both

until
the day her plaits were drawn crisscross on her forehead
decorated with huge glorious blossoms
      plucked from the patio

lips kissed

last breath

a pair destined for the history books


a love
            rollercoasterlargerthanlife




FateD?


  










Frida & Diego: FateD?    

© 2017 rochelle foles

O* fragrant wind float
a flower from Frida's hair
into my heart's crown.

Your soul was always isolated from
the world around you—from the very beginning. Time
alone was something you valued (as should we all)
but your isolation took on many forms—many
hungry shadows looming over you at all times.

A collision of iron and steel left you
immobile, and by the standards expected of
women, useless: your womb would never swell,
and you would never experience the pain of
bringing a child into this cruel world.

The fractures
and the wounds healed, but you
never recovered.

In the face of impossibility, you still
tried in desperation; leaving you in cold
unfamiliar hospital rooms, where all you
can see is an alien landscape; where all you
can think about is the reasons you are  here,
and the reasons your baby will never be.

It is a pain in your heart that leaves you gutted
like the iron handrail that embedded itself
through your ******. The bed is soaked
with your tears and your blood; it is the pain
of knowing that you will never hold a baby
who sees you as God; you will never experience
the love of a child, glowing with innocence.

I dreamed of Frida Kahlo
"yo era ella amante"
pure, paupered prince to her primal queen
yet still I hollowed a carnal niche into the midst
of one perdurable, lurid " noche de los muertos"
and fingered the lachrymose from her lacerations
counting prurient  time in a piercing nine of
perennial persecution before I wore her pelt
to lay me down in her sanguinary glow

Her thick brow,
Is only her choice.
A stance against norms.
2. Ribbons and flowers,
All tangled in her hair.
A decorative crown,
But beauty is not defined here.
3. She had many lovers,
Of many kinds.
But promiscuity,
Does not define worth.
4. Drink more than the men.
To dance with a love,
They can never have.
5. Politics are unimportant,
Only the ideas in your mind.
Of equality and charity,
But it will leave somebody dead.
6. Be bold and smart.
Follow your own direction,
Maybe dress like a man
7. When a trolley crashes,
Leaving you wishing for death,
Draw on your bandage.
Don’t let your broken column
Break your strength.
8. Don’t fall in love with artists,
They drink too much,
Cheat too much.
And will break your heart
9. Fall in love with artists,
A musician, maybe a painter.
You’ll never be bored,
You’ll always be drunk.
10. Just don’t let them break you,
Don’t stop painting because you’re hurt.
Don’t give them the satisfaction,
Of breaking your wings.
11. You don’t need anyone,
When you have wigs to fly.
Don’t need feet,
Or anyone else.
12. You probably feel like a freak,
Like the weirdest person you’ve ever known.
But as long as you’re weird with me,
You’ll never be weird alone.
13. Make friends with the past,
With people you’ve never known.
It’ll always be a source of security,
No one can leave that’s already gone.

I look at Frida through her paint, through her words, through the story of her life she has taught me not to be afraid.