A Damp Seaside Cottagebathed In A Picturesque Pastel Yellow Paint Peeling Off The Wallscracked Windows

A damp seaside cottage bathed in a picturesque pastel yellow paint peeling off the walls cracked windows shattered bottles screaming on the floor a story that you’ll never hear a silent porch bearing a lonesome rocking chair where tears used to stain her floral dress a sore giggling wind brings along an exiled melancholia unloaded memorabilia and then there’s you, collapsed on the dangling shingles tumbledown eyes peaking out of streaks of wet hair humming an outdated tune from the pit of a golden lacquered heart sluggishly tracing the words your mind’s waves cry. Sometimes you sink into their foam with your lavender socks and then the bitter water licks your neck and you forget the punctuation of the days that strut by and on that rooftop overlooking your splinters you shrug starved by the discolored key waiting under the doormat by the flower petals lingering around the gutter maybe it’s okay to die a little younger.

golden lacquered heart | © Margaux Emmanuel

The diagonal scar swelling  on his cheek shadows the stalemate  of salvation  a glissando  of desire that flew west for the winter away from the tempered light of day. The anacoluthon  of love  trapped in the pillowcase feathers of the  "have you ever been hurt ?" speaks  the demotic language of the pinned knight on the chessboard  of neurasthenia.  His heart writes letters with no  return address  My heart is trembling  with haste. "Nunc scio quid sit amor."

la llovizna comprende | © Margaux Emmanuel

sunflowers in the attic

to paint a tomb

in the prose of life

to caress a wound

with the edge of a knife

to write letters to the dead 

in a mosaic of hurt

to start bleeding dread

waiting for an answer 

to appease the thirst

to feel the verse of your lips

follow the prosody of my skin 

to let the streams of your tears

carve pain on the breath of chagrin

why is your name scribbled on a grave?

it channels in the streets of this morbid haze

where I can feel your cold pulse

your screams 

your presence

absence

echo in my veins

sewing a lace insomnia 

dissecting a lacuna 

searching in the emptiness of my heart

until it rips apart

breathe in

breathe out

you have blinded me

from the compass of existence

diagnosed with a troubled

broken 

spilled

pen 

the only solution 

is to burn the paper

burn me

© Margaux Emmanuel

clumsy town boy

Your heart

is stuck

in a long

car ride

edging

an endless

desert

empty

road

in 1973

sitting in

the backseat

reading Kerouac

butter-colored

baseball cap

no watch

timeless

wrist

high school

bomber jacket

covering a

white shirt

a chagrined

blue bra

his

aviator

Ray Bans

sliding down

the bridge

of its nose

listening

to the cassette

of a shattered

existence.

Two years

thousands of miles

away

he’s still

the one

appearing

in the

highway landscapes

ghostlike

you can almost

smell

his cologne

you thought

that you had

written

the last act

of that

tragedy

licked the seal

of that envelope.

But the trunk

is still

full of his

letters

the cursive ink

bruises you

at night

oh

the clumsy

town

boys

they really

mess you up.

© Margaux Emmanuel

The champagne lingering in the driveway of his eyelids ransacks the minibar of his depressive tendencies. A suffering insufferable dandy with a corduroy smile spills the cough syrup on the window sill and walks through a non-smoking floor with an unlit cigarette giggling in between his teeth. The stained carpet mutters that he’s a homeless homesick and the tears sticking to the glass table know it already. So he sits back on a fatigued settee and pours himself a dubious drink with a parking lot view. So he sits back uncomfortably with his heart a little tight and he tells himself that it’s just another sick day.

sick days | © Margaux Emmanuel

bullet eclipse

an asylum for doubt

a saturated drought 

where your eyes spiral down

my arteries

unspoken words amble upon a shard 

of reason

of treason 

inoculation

against melancholia

palpitations

holding hands with dementia

I can now hear 

the moans of hysteria

 © Margaux Emmanuel