Rp Verlaine lives and writes in New York City. He has an MFA in creative writing from City College and taught English in New York public schools until he retired. His first volume of poetry, Damaged by Dames & Drinking, was published in 2017 and a second collection, Femme Fatales Movie Starlets & Rockers, in 2018. A set of three e books titled, Lies From The Autobiography 1-3 followed in years 2018-2020.
Disloyal romantics we collect for evidence the residual lipstick traces each of our wide mouths have spit out with such disdain. Our accelerated breathes desires errant messengers increasing with each kiss. Taking off her boots see my face in the leather drunk and blurred. We do not look once. at the large silent crucifix upon the wall as if judging. Her silhouette unmatched in the darkness I am half sure during the prolonged intimacy where my eyes remain closed. I never hear her leave her boots make not a sound Like Armenia’s Saint James the silent his tongue still for years. Blushing I offer prayers 6 a.m. the church is still closed But lapsed in faith and belief I will wait at the doors I have much to confess.
Tedium Fails To Blink
Reading her mind skipping several chapters The illusion she presents to make things clear. Yet she hides in each embrace thinking of her X. Sending me cryptic messages with a daunting silence. From different rooms we watch the total eclipse feeling it. Accusations flying back and forth like lost acrobats. Just another thing to repair with whiskey till it doesn't work Rehearsing death before going to hell is all we know.
Smashed Chairs and Broken Glass
At 39, she had it all together the way few women do. Spoke a different language while using the same words as I. Wasn’t constantly looking at her phone like the younger ones who can only be in love with rejection or chaos. Said Bukowski was her favorite poet till she read my books. I wanted to believe her but her eyes were impenetrable, and Every step she took spoke of the distance to come. When after visiting desire’s trapdoors, I’d be left with smashed whiskey bottles and broken furniture. Destroyed without solace by both love and undying rage. But that first night, we stripped near the door and I took her four times standing up, on each wall in her studio. She screamed as if she was the victim of lust at a crime scene. Later telling me, I had made her feel something different and long forgotten. To that I say Perhaps. Yet weeks later, I ended up being right about the whiskey bottles and the broken furniture.