Bram Stoker’s “Dead Poet”

the palpable laughs,
feel them as you squeeze the smiles
through earth’s whimsical fingers
the face in the palm
is an image of desperation
caught between age lines
and elongated nails,
yes, they grow faster on the dead
Vampire eyes crisply misted over
a twinge of sad reality twists
like a humorous stake in the gut
of a bat’s tiny chest,
uncontrollable tittering, a cross
grin among a mirror’s missing image

you see yourself inside
and want to hide within the wings
older is hold up in a castle of
marred stones unevenly secluded
from mankind,
a writer can’t sleep during the night
and with sunrise, his pen grows younger
and more flighty,
but the spirit’s resolve waits restlessly
for the dark to come
so he may taste his love
once again.

erin-cilberto
10/3/o7

Plath 16– “Writing Mad”

you were like a towering inferno
of red hair and blushing pen,
stirrups tight with rage
you galloped over the range of male blades
grass smothered by taunting hooves,

writing into the sunset, returning
unsated with morning, relentless dust
kicked up by
the click-clack of keys presenting a sour rendition
over the rancid smell of three day old coffee
percolating as your heart, smothered in caffeine closure
you never felt,
just another rough rider trespassing across the land

you staked out, just before your branded
mental state
gave out.

10/2/o7

Plath 15– “Ted’s Visitor”

another wife, another catastrophe
a child and mother camped out in a leaking kitchen
Sylvia’s double, your imitation lover,
given a double dose of poison rejection

the reaper is on your doorstep, pounding with wrecking ball
delirium,
but you cower in the hallway by the desk
by one of your arrogant poems
shuffling your mistresses amongst carelessly strewn words,

and the drawer with the lock contains the burnt journals
that told the real story of the darkness of the house you live in
that you call a heart.

erin-cilberto
10/2/o7

Plath 14– “Interrupted Lunch”

cup in hand

bees stinging lips

as the coffee singes the kiss

left requited,

the drowning insects buzzing in her head

magnified,

the allusions to dream partners

to the fanatical illusions of faithfulness

the crown is full of cones

the draining honey angers the droning intruders

into the mouth of a poet

wide open into a forest of squelched flame

where the odor is wide enough

to make the hand holding the porcelain life

turn to blue stone.

erin-cilberto

10/2/o7 

Draft 2 

Plath 14– “Interrupted Lunch”

cup in hand

bees stinging lips

as the coffee singes the kiss

left unrequited,

the drowning insects buzzing in her head

magnified,

the allusions to dream partners

to the fanatical illusions of faithfulness

the crown is full of cones

the draining honey angers the droning intruders

into the mouth of a poet

wide open into a forest of squelched flame

where the odor is wide enough

to make the hand holding the porcelain life

turn to blue stone monotony.

erin-cilberto

10/2/o7

Draft 1

Plath 14– “Interrupted Lunch”

cup in hand
bees stinging lips
as the coffee singes the kiss
left requited,
the drowning insects buzzing in her head
magnified,
the allusions to dream partners
to the fanatical illusions of faithfulness
the crown is full of cones
the draining honey angers the droning intruders
into the mouth of a poet
wide open into a forest of squelched flame
where the odor is wide enough
to make the hand holding the porcelain life
turn to blue stone monotony.

erin-cilberto
10/2/o7

Plath Chronicles (13)—-the Bones of Deadpan Tenders

Ted Hughes in a blender
the blades of his poetry
cut deep into Sylvia’s throat
she swallowed his lines until she was a caught fish
squirming to get away from the scales of injustice
weighed in on bad ruses
and burnt fuses
houses of holy babble, crying children
distracted muse,
teddy bears to rip the stuffing out of the moles
that fell out of her poems like indignant butterflies

she flew away,
he had a drink
and tried to fix the socket
before it burnt down the mixture
that used to be his soul.

the Footsteps of the Past

sinewy superstitions
Friday the 13th love affairs
hacked to pieces by monsters in ski masked mascara
no axe, no hatchet, just enticement of an abandoned heart
towards the edge of a seductive forest,
there is blood on the window of opportunity
smeared deflections of astute affection
intelligence does not portend
the scream from behind,
the shattering light
the empty porch swing with rusted shrill

an array of slain emotions strewn about
as the movie ends
and we all leave the theater

uncomfortably alone.

erin-cilberto
9/30/o7

of belonging

“belonging”
defined as

needed, wanted, suitable, owned
something we often take for granted which could be priceless

love is a belonging,
like an old nick-knack
like an old comfortable shoe

like me and you

belonging is acquisition
could be imposition
or a preposition

belonging
at the end of a sentence of words
a proposition
our mouth cannot afford to say

with you
to me
in love
out of love
without you
away from me

belonging
at the beginning
of starting over
being disowned,

we sell our belongings
for yard sale compensation
a dispensation

for once belonging
but now, not.

erin-cilberto
9/29/o7

the Naked Truth about Love

spillage onto some saucer
of refined taste,
admonishing stares,
from exaggeratedly perfumed
necks craned to intrude
on what isn’t their business
after all

the coffee is cold
as the frigid gaze i return
manners assume a defiant stance
i hear you whispering,
but your arrogance slurs the slams
and society leaves a cheap tip

for the waitress who serves covert
crepes wrapped in pity
to the single customer at the end of the counter

swiveling in an unsure seat
spilling immodesty this way and that.

erin-cilberto
9/29/o7

Running Wild

my jackson pollack mind
splashes the floor with dripping emotion
coincidental colors run across boards,
footprints of radical feelings stomped onto
the painted scene of leavings
grieving grays, opium oranges and ecstatic blues
the beautiful mind with roller skate hands
spreads the sad drift

on a canvass that will never see a wall
yet nails hang longingly wanting to touch
the rendering of abysmal bliss

as the artful show closes its heart
to the public
and genius drifts away wiping
unsold tears,
with anonymous distrust
lingering
under the feet of gallery visitors
expressing little or no empathy
with what they look at but don’t feel.

erin-cilberto
9/28/o7