we’ll light up like baby Jesus on Christmas Eve night.

I had a stunning realization back in the warmth of my kitchen table.

I have nothing in common with a man I’ve been slow motion walking away from. huh.
there are people whose eyes can’t shine to even begin to know the depths of their darkness.

I shy away from that side of the road.
the sunny side and a strong hand to hold is where my misguided heart ventures.

I want to make mistakes. I want a nerd as a counterpart to my dork.
I want a wild ride. sleepless nights. waltzes in the half thawing Atlantic Ocean. I want to cut our ankles on salted ice and fill our lungs with sand as we laugh ourselves into our next reincarnated life.

Don’t take me so seriously. And I’ll be here. with a PayDay a pineapple coconut water and a bodega romance scented candle.

i believe in magic over despair. and I remember the day I believed in you. living and breathing here. I wish I didn’t fear the absence of alone.

the people I hold against my breast don’t wear day to day disguises. they may have been broken once or twice. but persevere we must.

and I wouldn’t take the portraits of people I saw online tonight into a dark alley. let alone my heart.
flesh and blood. we have secret needs and an eye for the opportunity to chew the thought and hope into your ear.

if I must know people. let me touch them. Mess em up. let me mess up and still hear you speak my name. let me leave my handwritten name across 206 bones.
let me have at your rib cage and leave bruises and kisses. a dotted map of my faithless loyalty.
I’ll lay down my weapons of war and this skull carnival. can’t take and I haven’t won. just want.

don’t make me ever meet the folks you know. there’s no artful grace to meeting a dead man’s gaze.
the exaggerated movements of the cultured factions make me sadly laugh on the inside.
but if I had a pocket and all the time. you would be my only one. a palm of perspiration and a heart that fights me to leave well enough. alone.
but if I’m going down I’m going down fighting for what tears at my chest. crystal and chaos.
I know I’ll bleed. and I know the limitations of the life they dangle in front of me.

my tension filled jaw line and doe eyes.
if I’m going down I’m going down fighting.
an electric chair of lethal 6,000 watt vantage point. my kind of love.
we’ll light up like baby Jesus on Christmas Eve night.
and your friends will try to maintain a look of not impressed.
and I’ll conveniently forget their names. because I only came through in all this darkness for you.
what would happen if you fell asleep to my hostile snores and skinny armed hug. I may be small but I’m yours.

and I’d carry you into the morning wake. where you open your eyes and say it looks like any other day. and I tell you no.
and I show you. where you are. with me. and I’ll hold your hand steady. your palm and pulse soothes me to a smile and a sunrise. on our side of this Brooklyn Street.

I want to believe in your eyes.
I want to ignore your surface performance artist street show. because if I know.
I know. your eyes. when you think no one is paying attention.

in the pitcher than black shadowlands of my half paid rent stabilized island bedroom demons know the weak well.
your presence terrifies them.
your presence terrifies me. but I’m refusing to budge.
I want a pocket. a small space. to hold on to while existing in these skinny jeans and high heels.
and I want the ability. to prove. we aren’t meant to fortify flesh with steel siding and speaking distance.

we’re meant to hold on to what’s left of each other. pulse and palms.

I shake. when you dare to come breathing distance near.

my greatest fear is your immense pleasure.

leave those dark eyed ladies far away from what’s considered a home.
they aren’t nearly clever enough for my liking. they only want what I have.
and for the first time, I feel like fighting.
but I’d rather you come willingly. have me now as I keep on. I keep on trying to be.
a better person and your less lonely love.

somethings won’t leave me. like this ache and the isolation with the crowd.
You are only a man. but you cure me.
with recognition. with such a tenderness appears when you think I’m not looking. I’m paying attention.
you are my best reference point of heaven on earth. a beacon. as I live and breath.
and I hope you aren’t evil. I’ve been wrong before. but I let that go.

I see you. when the candles burn down.
and your plans with friends make you devastating. and fully dressed.
I lied.
the sideline view of you leaving makes me want to cry out.
but my arms worked it out. they want. to comfort you. as you fall away into the night. and me. I’ll never ask. you. I’ll just hope.
this life takes you at times.
And I won’t make you fit here. living and only half heartedly breathing. isn’t love or fair.
love is an unintentional freedom when done right.

bad luck and a bayonet occupy my bed.
only the willing and the depraved can enter the places where I hide.
and together. maybe we can look for vital signs and valuable life.
and I know you’re mine. You’re what I look for around street and avenue corners.
and on Saturdays when I pray genuflecting with St.Joseph I imagine you know all the prayer’s by heart.

for human life. for your palm and pulse.
I’d hold both signs to my breast. and be a liar with my visible tears.
happiness is a blind blessing. and a creator’s best guess. that’s how they make us. then leave us. here. and when I touch you. I believe in the innate strength of mankind.
to give up on cold comfort cure-all’s and alone.
to pick your side. and your nights. and I’ve been thinking about all this time. and all these excuses we’ve been given.
I want to squander it all. and our choices will continue to move forward in their God given direction. not used as weapons. not turned into redirected questions.

my skinny arms will keep you warm.
If I could run. I’d be distance and a calculated destination by this time next week.
but I want to know. if I’m right. if you are indeed found magic.
in a land that usually lies as a pleasant distraction. I want to know. if I can trust. unconditionally. blindly.
A person whose bones and blood feel like a beautifully indecent home.
make me ache from this life. to know we are real while we wait for change.

the Central American priest knows. the future is a shell game.
his gospel tells us to believe. in something. in anything from this life and Saturday’s following me. down concrete. and the Catholic church’s stairs. adding distance. between my emotionally ridged spine and this Greenpoint steeple.

I took sides with the priest.
it’s time to forget how to worry.

so I chose to believe in you over Jesus.

 

– C Roses Lambrecht. 03.2014.Peter Doig's At the Edge of Town (1986).

* Artwork: Baring all … Peter Doig’s At the Edge of Town (1986).

a mattress and one serrated knife.

I deal in the business of extremes
the window is open
goose-bump air is rushing in

to grab at our bare skin

I need the sun on my face
we only toss and turn when it’s too late

this darkness feels like life

me and you
only own a mattress and one serrated knife

these memories feel like a life
I’d like to know
me and you
before they made us this way

filled up beyond repair

Light your last match
say you can feel the sun buried
in my dirty blonde hair

Kiss

the

bride

with leaving Brooklyn in your eyes

she only thinks about you
between her thighs.

 

-C. Roses Lambrecht

me.

enumerable fears.

 

stone.

 

angel stone.

when we love. let’s love against the world.
and let me in.
kiss your left shoulder top and your pillow. while you sleep next to me. i wonder.
if i’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.
when will the cracked sunshine and traffic highway
become what i can’t quite remember.
there’s a flight tonight. to anywhere.
and is that what i need. more than you. meeting myself.
at the gate. to meet my worst enemy.
all i can relate to is the sensation of wanting to relearn.
how to breathe. and your soft shoulder fast asleep. at ease
with all this noise. and me. holding you down pushing back. enumerable fears.

-C. Roses Lambrecht

 

 

 

a gasoline soaked rag and a sigh. we could be fucked. wild blessings.

there is a calm that sets in after you have met enough people. the experiences we share. some good. some foolish.
some unnecessary evil behaviors. linger like a touch of perfume on a pulse and a thin wrist.

me and the screen door had a shouting match of tears and than it all went silent.
the strangers are kind when passing repeatedly by in these streets. there is music and fire.

I can see your memory like a wet dagger.
and my breath no longer is a gasoline soaked rag and a sigh.

there’s a mythical understanding. you sound of raised paint and non accidental passion.
there is no remedy metronome. no need to keep steady.
time. I’m talking from the right corner of a wronged mouth. i get it.
the resistance. the calamity of a passion i couldn’t question i knew you before this life.

Some things come at you once. no matter how high functioning the air and the notion finds you weak kneed and 3rd degree burned. that’s love.
faulty and rhythmic.
And I want to tidy up this elicit passion in spring green tissue paper and a bow. the end seems so desperate and there’s a whisper when the days turn past midnight. it’s the time for lovers to dance under a blanket of dark sky and ignorance makes your head feel foggy even if in the light of day you are one of the few born wise.

love has no logic or plain clothes disguise. it’s made of jagged edges- the jaws of life- and a new King’s English definition of passion.
Passion is an infection crossing the blood brain barrier and the hem of my skirted knees fall wide open. from the sight of you. i hope. but know nothings better. it just is.

After years of speed dating dead authors and their echoes of quoted thought. i find your arms reassuring.
i’d make the pair i carry in pause and involuntary reaction throw themselves like a lasso to your neck. they could hang your final thought and your single breath makes this Solo cup life worth fighting dirty for. so i sigh against the memory of your sound and you on my red vinyl barstool. A king i couldn’t kiss enough to throw away in an ally or as the wrong player for the part. perfect. that’s the only way I could begin the gossip and the words i batter and let fall to break on granite and dirty dish filled sink.

there’s a calm. and i can’t tell time from loss.

nothing is clear when you find passion.

i could curse you or martyr you on the front lawn grass. but that wouldn’t solve you.
decades of life experience devastated by one man and one passionate run on sentence most may never find.
i want to run.
make it a manhunt with the knowledge a single soul shouldn’t be able to follow you home in an after life.

you could be made to worry. a fugitive in my awkwardly stubborn mind.
but i want you to trap me in 2012 and let me start counting. i decided in the off leap year last month of February we could be fucked.
we could be compromise and a pile of filth and issues
or we could be wild blessings counting on the kindness of strangers and spies.

i won’t lie.

you are my wild blessing and the peace i find in never knowing
how passion can breathe in grid lock traffic and smog sabotage.
it ain’t perfect. but it ain’t a lie. and i’m calm reading your palm and my eulogy.

i lack your understanding. i can’t trace where the phone calls go.
emergency whiskey and a static address make me an easy target and local.

it’s called passion and a dead calm.
i know you as a lie i won’t tell.
a wild blessing i can’t own but a taste.
this life is familiar and waiting just like you.

i’m dead calm. you’re a wild sound.
and i’ve been counting my blessings.
a destroyed book of bible stories and a long memory where you’re concerned.
it’s bleeding and bare.
it’s what few know or others jump the gun to run from.
it’s not happy.
it’s an isolated word and way you whisper and sell out from between your teeth.

it can’t tell a lie.

it lays down as a strangle and a stranger.
and you can’t argue back at it.
you can only make your peace and remain. calm.

i am. you are.

a familiar passion. is a story and could be nothing. but it’s not. not nothing.
Elmer’s glue and no one’s going to let you lie. all this time. all i know.
is the calm when i’m alone.
is the passion when your taste is placed between my upper and lower rose coloured lips.

i find you. as an addiction. as rare passion.

i found how to be silent engulfed in your flames.

-C. Roses Lambrecht

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