Sixth on Seventh Street by Abba Marie Moreno (Poem, to be edited)

Sixth on Seventh Street

By Abba Marie Moreno

 

The café is always open

for patient souls like mine.

I sit on this reserved

table for two, alone

with the full moon

watching over

the untouched cup

of hazelnut coffee you like so much.

It’s getting cold.

(You never show up.)

 

The clock strikes ten,

it is time

for me to wait

under the sixth lamppost

of Seventh street in

Whitechapel.

We met there last night, didn’t we?

Perhaps, you remembered,

I remember, I remember so well

that I can almost—

   hear your humming hair

     sing with the nocturne breeze,

       taste your sweet sweet voice

         screaming of raw pleasure

           from the thrilling games we play.

          (Remember, we played Surgeon,

And I put my hand in your—

 

(The click-clacks

of your high heels

are beckoning me.)

Here you come.

 

 

Why can I smell such fear

from your bright blue eyes?
Can’t you remember, Victoria,

all the good times we had?

Our nights? Our kisses? Our love?

You aren’t Victoria?

(And you say your name is Mary)

Deny yourself not—to me.

Remember, the divine being you are.

Or remember me, at least.

 

 

Perhaps, if I kiss you,

you might remember,

just like in fairytales,

and finally fear will vanish

from your soft eyes

and your trembling lips.

 

Just let me get a little closer.

 

Don’t scream, woman!

Mellifluous voices such as yours

should not make awful shrieking sounds.

Stay calm. The world is empty,

‘cept for you and me—

 

 

 

—and this knife.

Don’t worry, I can protect you.

There is no reason to escape.

Stop resisting!

Perhaps a little pain

will catch your   /attention;

like we do, as always.

You know, I never enjoy

hurting you like this, Victoria,

it’s just that

            you never learn.

What? You’re crying?

I’ve always told you that

I hate seeing you sad.

Stop it, Victoria, it’s killing me.

Smile, Victoria.

It’s torture, Victoria.

Stop crying, please.

Please, it’s hurting me.

Please,

don’t make me do this.

Stop your wailing, bitch!

 

---

(from left to right)

 

 

My light, my love,

What have I done?

Your beautiful smooth neck,

I’ve ruined it (No, the knife did!).

This flowing stream of warm rubies

dripping from your open throat

will always haunt me.

It was your fault, Victoria.

You made me do it.

Now, the fool moon has

witnessed this tragedy,

And this Romeo has lost

his beloved Juliet.

Perhaps I should follow you

into the valley of death;

then forever, we shall be together.

Your hair, your skin, I shall miss them.

Your face, your legs, your neck,

Your lips, your blood, your eyes—

 

Your eyes…

 

are blue.

Victoria’s eyes are as green as emeralds.

Ha! How could I have mistaken this wretch,

for my beloved, Victoria?

Sorry, Lady, honest mistake.

(I am quite unlucky,

this is the third time

this month.)

 

 

No matter, Victoria,

I can always wait for you.

The café is always open

for patient souls like mine.

 

 

For all the ones that leave by Abba Marie Moreno

For all the ones that leave

By Abba Marie Moreno

 

For all the ones I miss,

A TOAST!

(I just turned eighteen!)

A glass of some fine wine

to celebrate and to commemorate

all the fine some-times

we had. Wine,

its flavor enriched by Time,

a fitting drink for this occasion.

(We’ll meet again, some day

and our times will be sweeter.)

 

For all the ones I’ll miss,

a shot of vodka.

Vodka: fiery, fervid, fleeting—

leaving throats parched for more.

Too much stains with a faint

taste of memory.

(Was it all a dream?)

Vodka fits perfectly

for this farewell.

(I won’t see you again, but,

surely, you will be missed.)

 

The days have come

and the nights have passed,

And I’ve realized that:

I should buy more vodka.

 

racecar by Abba Marie Moreno

racecar

by Abba Marie Moreno

 

“To be or not to be?

That is the question.”

Hamlet asked the audience

under the stage lighting.

 

He died.

(Hamlet did)

 

 

 

 

 

But the actor lived

to play Romeo

another night.

 

Another night

to play Romeo,

but the actor died.

 

 

 

 

 

He lived.

(Romeo did;

and Hamlet too)

 

Under the stage lighting,

Hamlet asked the audience:

“Is that the question,

To be or not to be?”

 

 

(in The End, who died?)

Don't by Abba Marie Moreno

Don't

by Abba Marie Moreno

Tempting--

     you are, 

unpredictable-,

inexplicable-,

unbelievable-

    --ly sweet.

If you can, let me

        have you, for just

   a bit more

           fun.