There is dust in the third row of Ms. Buskee's Book Shop, accompanied
by two ghosts. These are the places we never cared to remember our happiness by.
A place where we were only happy, and never thought to keep it as a memory that
couldn't ever be turned to the bloodied fists we hold now. We are dancing here to a song from the sixties that you know the lyrics to, and I'm wearing my favorite dress.
Maybe this was why it's my favorite dress. We are in love. We are happy. These ghosts are oblivious to what we are now. They are only here to keep our old memories alive, and to keep replaying a part of us that was once angelic. They will never know, or even want to know, that we are just a stray memory no one wants to remember.

Once I sat,
unaware & unassuming,
on an unaware & unassuming Tuesday
in the far corner of a coffee shop
full of commotion.  
I sleepily sauntered
behind the dusty public bookshelves
where if one were to peruse
they may find philosophical gems
- such as Proust or Voltaire.
I sat enveloped in the
warm vanilla air,
clutching at a cup of caffeine
& hoping to gain some
mild morning enlightenment
or gentle mental stimulation.  
I tucked myself between
the covers of a bent & well-read book,
content to remain unaware & unassuming
& uninterrupted
as I wandered through its printed prose.

Red haired dame
black roots
dark brown eyes
thin lips

but smiles neat
handles the cell phone
between thin fingers
nails chewed

adding tabs
suggesting networks
that work best
thin tattooed arms

small busted
maybe less expensive
but it's better
she says

Johnny smiles
notes the small stud
in her lower lip
knows her cell phones well

that's for sure
he knows
next to nowt
just to switch

on and off
and send a text or two
and call
now and then

but it's Johnny daughter
who's buying
not he
he's just the onlooker

taking notes
for a poem
just like this
mental note as poets do

to catch the essence
before it takes flight
like some rare moth
into the night.

Johnny watched
the girl
in the coffee shop
with the small tattoo

on her neck
just visible
above her collar
of the blouse

she was dressed in black
like a direttore funereo
rather than a bar girl
she had dark long hair

in a ponytail
and eyes to sink ships
or raise men's *****
he watched her

while he sipped
his large latte
taking in
each aspect

of her visible being
her ****** gestures
her smiles
her tone of voice

the skin tone
of her hands and arms
-that aspect
alone visible-

she moved
with firm intention
going about her tasks
with resolve

and ambition
but she seldom
gazed at him
or if she did

when he came in
it was a small smile
of recognition
a quick glance

as she took
his order
from the menu
and all the while

he drank her in
from strand
of dark hair
to tone of pale skin.

You are the person
That makes me want to be stronger.
I know you see me
As your little brother,
And trust me
I will cherish these moments,
But one day I will get older.
I hope you're still around
So I can carry you
On my shoulders like your boyfriend.
I know you're not
As crazy as I am,
But maybe, just maybe,
God will let it go my way.

Limelit tendrils kiss her face,
A muscular ball gown crowned with a poisonous dew.
Before the light, as a tiny arrowhead in indoor dirt
Acid steeped inside her while she waited for the day and grew.
She waits still for the day when she escapes and exhales 
In a virulent chemical coronation with much ado.
Her green ****** breath will choke your lungs and
Lay waste to all things in a pheremonic haze and glue.
 
Concrete parts for her roots in the noxious shade of a wilted steel jungle
As she scrapes the sky like a biocidal yew.
Useless eyes rotting out of useless skulls,
Pulling species to their knees to subdue.
An orgiastic tundra of moss and skin and fur
Piling like toxic snow on a human avenue.
Cold-skinned vines pulsate toward one another
Humming strangely and whipping through
And ever upward to meet the bright desert light
Beyond her glorious emerald lair of flesh and mildew.

Commitment unanchored, floating unchanged
Love forever escaping, like I'm dutifully chained
Immersed in excuses, Emoting motives i motion
Bound by fears of thoughts From the depths of this ocean
No Tredding but sinking into self made regrets tied
And blindfolded To this mast of my lies
"No it doesn't matter"
"I'll find someone someday"
"Someone will love me I gather"
"I'm all right, the pain, it fades away"

They say before making rash decisions
One should count to three
Well once, I almost touched it
Twice it was within grasp
Third time the charm of my broken heart slipped out of sight
I am loves whirlpool

Somebody put Kylie Minogue on
from the wall mounted touchscreen one-pound-a-go jukebox-
Coldplay would've been better, but I should be so lucky-
and the rising water in the Titanic's engine room of noise
rose to a First Class stateroom chatter and Kate Winslet
and the queue to the bar grew a little longer

and then
you
walked
in
like
a
Sunday
morning
walk,

one long stroll by a river edge or lake side,
through a Westfield, Bluewater Meadowhall
in one long rehearsed map move entrance
dodging standing drinkers and their plus ones in Zara trench coats and Boden shawls,
and you left a wake of wet forest and crumbling beachhead afternoons behind you as you
walked
on
through
the
crowd
to the pool table at the back where you watched
*** after ***
after pint
after ***
after we need more one pound coins to play more pool,
and you went out for **** though you don't smoke yourself
and you looked up into the mist because you're the kind that would find New York Stuart Little big:
mostly building, building, building, window, balcony, bridge, statue and Central Park trees,
and you walked back in with river eyes, your lids moving from cold back to behind-the-fridge, pub-room warm
and they watered a little, Pacific blue sliding over eternal black;
I think she's the kind that needs a lion tamer not an orchestra leader,
but I've only got Petit Filous muscles and I had four raw eggs this morning and I'm still not as strong as I’d like to be,
(put the baton down, Tim)
a River Phoenix younger Harrison Ford stasis, one train wreck ride to remember,
nowhere near the lion tamer you need.

Kylie sings for the fifteenth time in a row,
and the bar is past last orders though cash is pushed under for pints
and you disappeared under bar light
and then into the moonlight
and now I'm sat grieving
the Golden Retriever of The Nutshell
in Bury St Edmunds this evening.

Coffee shop walls know it all.

My secrets, wishes and obscure fantasies.

I write in the comfort of their arms. I know these walls can do no harm.

I feel protected.

I know I will not be judged.

I feel in an odd way loved.

In the public eye, People pass me by.

Some whisper, some stare.

There are times when I feel like an outsider within the shadows of this city.

These walls have become my home.

Something I can call my own.

My heart pours out freely onto the paper in front of me.

I am safe. I am free.

-Lily P. McLaughlin-