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The Professor's Little Angel

The Professor’s Little Angel

 

Maria Morisot

 

Published by Moan Lisa Press at Shakespir

 

Copyright © Maria Morisot 2015

 

I don’t know

what time

it is; but

I’ve got

you on my

mind. Something

like seven hours

since we parted

ways; something’s

gnawing at my

insides;

 

Sweet home, of

the seventh

collective, my

dear, what would

you have

besides? This cold

tower of isolated

loneliness,

peeking watchfully

through an ever-fading

mid-

night

sky.

 

Deceased payment

for a bed;

triptychal amusements

playing in my

head, a seven

story assignment

for a fourth grade

orchestra;

 

Love the ones

we anaesthesize,

our common courtship

pleading, breathing

washing up on shore;

 

Two grains of

filthy rice;

cataloguing

 

Dusty old sentiments

the way

we used to

play them in our

ears; never mind you

hear; the descent of

angels in our song.

 

A crack in

the code;

parenthetical

apostrophe,

Caesar sacked-

cloth, dried

marble membranes

a disgusting

shade of pink;

 

Okay so,

we’ve been

talking on and

off for a

month, month

and a half. It

didn’t seem

to be going

anywhere so I

dropped it. She

dropped it. It

was void. Then

out of the

blue yesterday

she texted me,

asking if

I like sex;

then things

got interesting

quickly………….

 

Her voices peek

through polyester

sheets; and see

me incompletely,

shaven and

pertaining to

some imaginary star.

 

Please pretend

we’ve diminished our

speech,

and given our

deference to

the chicks that

dance on

stage;

 

A watermelon corpse’s

incumbent parade;

we all should see

the flesh and

lightning fireworks;

 

& Only the bold

and intermittent

sky breaks down

the habits

of apocalyptic

enzymes.

 

Police stretcher,

holding onto thunderous

champaign bells;

that toll for

 

My inconsistencies.

Every hour, there

are wells of

incandescence

 

A fleeting thought

of my inebriated

conjectures; you are

the hospital institution

that feeds me

propane and butane;

morphine’s sink

sustained.

 

Concentric serialist progression

doubt was

the wrapped phenomenon

causing us to utter

sources of our

fears in

the pages

of an unbound

book;

 

Sympathy takes turns

echoing the madness

of our laughter,

that common

cause of

dumbed down speech

 

Centrifugal forces

pinch my hand as I

take you up

in the whorls

of self-

afflicted

biology;

 

Only the camera

speaks.

 

Little angels, all

in a row

ducking

in their

beds, giving head

 

Watch their grave

stones, watch their

movement as

they fly; through

skies

of everclear’s

consumption,

spinning wild

with passion

and with nausea

 

And the voices all

said there’d

be death

and there’d be

disquiet. Prove

them wrong,

help me step

out into the

harsh ammonia air.

 

The moisture in the

atmosphere; collecting

dreams of her, pieces

of tonight’s realities;

 

And for a time,

I listen to

the speaking woods

and peckers there;

deciding where

to take this

instant polaroid

 

And it’s alright,

it just gets better

over time;

 

What lurks

beneath the surface

of my infatuated

score—

 

Is there a loch-ness

dark-ness swimming

inside of me?

 

An open house

transportation

modification of

the self; to self-

inflicted identity

 

We’re all dreamers

at a certain point

in our lives,

we all melt

into pools

of toxic water

 

As see-through

stars collect

the common wealth

of God’s abiding

deforestation

and turpentine

stains the carpets

where I had known

you one before,

my little dove;

 

My roaming angel

from above.

 

Angelic conversation lasts

well into

the night; where

we pretend to

extrapolate

each other’s

dirty minds

 

Holding onto

something that’s forbidden,

seasoning the light,

we’re peppering

ourselves for

tooth decay.

 

Fluid dynamics and

the shift

towards instrumentalism;

no more constituent

sunrises,

 

No more conditions

of the heart,

 

We fly as we were

meant to,

in the dust

of an old page,

 

Turned about

so we could

peek

into the

dynamic structures

of our

conditional

behavior.

 

Insistence on the

ground; makeshift

movies

and unforgotten sounds

the kind

which grates on

the nervousness

 

Of my body;

goose pimples

and bleeding scabs

peeled remembrances;

plucked off

within the darkness

of our conversations

 

When only you know

the let down

of a misanthropic

mind.

 

The heart bleeds

it says,

“forever is a

long way past

midnight,

 

and there’s

shooting

stars in my

milk; a hunter’s

quarrel buried

beneath my skin.”

 

I’d like to know

the throughput

of this infatuation’s

synergy; the

symphony that’s

been awakened within

these crow-like

appendages.

 

Depends on who’s

in charge

of this replacement

operation,

 

What scars removed

and what

scars remain are

taken into

account;

 

A holy order

with ordained

precision bombs;

detonator in

place

 

And ordered

arrays of thermo-

nuclear reactions;

 

Can you feel it?

The wash of

someone’s spit

echoing through

the distant

stars tonight.

 

His skin is

almost faded

and his lips

are set and

faceted,

 

No companies

divide our bed

 

Beside the watchtower;

a Herculean

sunset

blisters a clouded

sky and ravages

the bodies

of two lovers

as they die.

 

Slow and painful

musings of the heart,

respiratory sentiments

stripped bodies bare;

his crushing words

spoken to the oak,

as I lie

in sweet despair.

 

A linear arrangement

in traditional

style; formatted

for magnetic tape

 

Sealed with his

perverted imaginings,

we write

complexified expressions

of what we are,

who

we were when

Dorothea’s sounds

swelled inside

and startled

the fish

(within our wombs)

 

But Lesley’s

bare remarks

of synthetic

reprimand,

stylistically

approved for

the condition

of my embitt-

ered embroid-

ery; set to

the music of

my soul's in- tent.

 

He said to stain

the pages

with ink drawn

from the well;

 

He said the

sheets were

too symmetrical.

 

“My body, in your eyes,

let’s dissolve our

differences tonight.”

 

And in his vacant

gaze of my

iridescent

form, playing

screaming violins

like dying cats

breeding amoxicillin;

 

I beat the pulpit

black and blue,

my deranged god;

the semaphore

of distillation

I once knew.

 

When I reached

for the

cup; of my

expressionism

 

Settled figuratives

sunk within the

pores, I

rediscovered concurrency

and domestic evaluation.

 

At every juncture,

mind split—

and through this

rift, becomes

a skirted obsession.

 

Falling hard

into pools

of necessary

guilt & pleasure;

disentangling

thoughts & pressures

to please, please,

please.

 

I drop his

cacophonous,

indirection; surreptitious

state of enemy

intrusion, this super-

stition drenched

in turpentine

 

He broke

my heart.

 

Whatever extract

I had planned

to carpet

these floorboards

with, as if

dreaming of

our one

night stand,

 

He is indecision,

he is a thorn

in the side;

a stinger, a

sharp incision

a shooting

pain; a heart-

beat’s bruise.

 

My lover’s lifeline;

a bad expository

burst

of fluid dis-

entanglement; green

decay, elements

of style of

gray matter dis-

emboweled

 

And he lies there,

unaware of my

persistent glare;

 

nurturing

this shadow

of a beast.

 

Infused with predatory

information; scratching

the iron chamber’s

six-inch-

thick

door, hoping

for a miracle to

unwind itself

 

The pennant

reflected through

glass sheets;

bears his mark.

 

The unimaginable

derivation of slowing

sides and still

surrender and

I can’t breathe

through all

the smog

 

I simply close

my eyes and

let the world

hiss into non-

existence.

 

I’m out of

breath &

control; these

little disasters,

breaking bread and—

uncorking a bottle

 

And in the Summer,

without the shade

to keep

my reasons broad

enough to temper

ill complaints,

 

I dangle his

bright feather

down below

the rails,

 

And let it

slip into

her unquestioning

reprimand

 

See through

Summer

time.

 

He lights

the darkness

between my thoughts

and his respite;

our dysfunctional assignment

of glazed over

eyes, peeled

 

Thoroughly

through his injections

into my arm,

into my arms.

 

There’s no

more coalescing

medium for our

forgiveness

 

To pool

his waters’

microbes;

so we will

vaccinate

my troubled

mind, we’ll

make static

rings

to settle

around my waist.

 

A fluid necessary

to take

into the chambers

of my heart;

 

In padded walls,

where I

wash

the sequence

of deevolutionary

marks, erase

the pain

 

Inject myself

with an auditory

stream

of information;

and when I close

my eyes,

it feels like

nothing’s

as it was

 

And the halluci-

nations

dripped down

my cheeks,

 

And I could

hear his voice.

 

A lump of

poetry caught

between my teeth;

his sentiment

brushed off,

my mouth open,

lips spread wide;

isosceles September

 

His mouth spread

wider than mine,

as though we were

repetitively

positioned

as inverted signs;

reciprocal documentation

phrasing the prospective

rioting; one

man’s hand, twisting

the foundations

of my faith

 

I am faster

than him;

my soul’s

spread thin,

and in this house

the lights drip

red/orange.

 

His back to

me, tightened

as a taut

commiseration

 

No more warning

signs, no

advanced conver-

sations

 

Just the dull

aching pain

of his voice

stepping out

of rhythmic waltz;

and we are

wanting of the sky

to make her rounds

as he and I

penetrate

the pyramidal

and reflective

pools

of self doubt

at this

inauguration.

 

In reference

to our tomorrow’s

night; only

God has

escaped the confines

of our dimensionality

 

And while we

suffer at each

other’s hands

the silent

prayers

of faithless

angels dance

through lightless

space and time

 

He knows only

the weightlessness

of God’s confinement,

here beneath

the hinged door;

Hades’ house

shines a light

so ever black

and loathesome

 

That one cannot

ignore the

calling into fleshless

sea of foam.

 

Caught between sleep

and a

motor bike; tense

and settling

against the backdrop

of a stream’s

sychronicity

 

In a land where

legs are myths

and made to stand;

one pedals,

one lands,

 

Opening the pages

of a dirty look,

his drunken lips

the spiral

of sweet September,

 

An ocean prism

gathering tomorrow’s

lightning ball,

in heated argument

with the

tide; to where

the Romans built

their palace gardens.

 

A storm’s mark

distilled and sacred;

his breath

is holy and

his heart

is full of

sentimentalism

 

From the moment

the sky lit up

and fire

descended on our

lawn; here

in the plain,

black curtain

of our insecure

idolatry,

 

We wrestle

with what we know

to be our little

lies, wrapped

in alimony

and child support;

 

Our damnedest selves.

 

He’s shared his world

through stationary

cycles in the rusty

concrete California

sun, my cracked

lips; split

embitterment towards

the fumbling tell,

this rancid spill

 

ERROR IN THE GARDEN

there is an ovulescent

ERROR IN THE GARDEN

pill misshapen as a

ERROR IN THE GARDEN

has-been, would-be

ERROR IN THE GARDEN

 

Tomatoes, bright red

and bleeding their

not-so-sticky sap,

while we sap

ourselves and

revolve the doors

of ecstasy

around.

 

Ironic how it

all begins,

with a slashing

of the wrist

 

And there are

two tell tales

that opened up

the door

to

my discomfort

 

An angel spokes-

person of God;

descending out

of the sky,

in shallow

steps, drowning

me in light

 

And his face

becomes

the shadow

of the night,

burying me

in

existential

ruin.

 

The smoke, burning

rot; smoldering

principles of

engineering, conducted

experiments too soon

out of

the laboratory

 

Swarms of incoherent

blasts, peppering

the horizon;

as the

walls betray an inkling

of proportion

 

Symmetry as the lines

crossfeeding our

elementary perception;

fading lights

play out upon

a stage of secrecy,

 

And my veil

secretes the beauty

I have hidden

deep within

the recess of

a propagandist facade.

 

Echoes angle; street-

light serenade

complete with unrequited

passion. I am

the consequence

of this

 

I am the sin

at my disposal;

I am the disposable

upturned face

laughing at the

sediment

of my maker

 

And in the center

of my pain

there lies

a course of

action;

it is in

her eyes,

&

in her touch

 

The complications

of my diminished

humanity

ignite.

 

He’s straddled

and secured

my obligatory isolation;

gauged my

tension and the

uniqueness

in this firm

and everlasting

sun.

 

She’s a stage name

headed for disaster;

my mother’s

incoherent memories,

blandly butchered

for tonight’s close-

shaven lullaby

 

Weird erotic dreams

with a wet sun

burning through

the sheets,

my only persistent

memory, when we were

three; and fourteen

pages crumpled

up in heaps,

those dirty words

 

Those

filthy

memories

 

An elevated

construction sea;

the beds of

which lie

over an unanticipated

projection of

our hot sun

 

And here the

fire burns,

dissolving

all the sediments

of war

 

It’s in his mouth,

the language

with which we

can make amends;

and in her heart,

the language

with which we

can make amends

 

Story hour,

the glue by which

we fold our

beds,

and cradle

our sons & daughters.

 

The categorization of

futurist film,

protagonist; antagonist

syphilitic urges

set into still

life,

 

The thoughts of him

fulfill the pages’

blank desire

and encompass a

still yet beating heart

 

There is too

much

of an element

of mind,

 

And far from

happy circumstance

bleeds into the

bouquet;

an arrangement of

stylistic serendipity,

edging ever onwards

into the peaceful

form of forgotten

fantasy.

 

Ridiculous fever felt

beneath my

breath, in my

lungs the

calculation made clear

 

September’s sprinkles

kept me cool

beneath this

hot, hot mess

of slowly

fading heat

 

And his gravity

foretold

to me my

indecipherable pain

made plain;

disorganized

and then sorted

into order,

neat little piles

of sexualities.

 

Inverse recital of instrumental decay;

florid explanation of a dissonant despair,

The vine & the world are shaken,

 

Through the escalation

of distorted

facts, Vesuvia’s spillage;

utterances are had &

 

Every tickled neuron—

spits out

expository spaces, & I

saturate their deaths,

 

A frigid love,

without the concreteness

of a smile,

no metal. No

perfumes

to fill my

lungs.

 

Just the sure

incapacitation

& revolt;

 

of a girl.

 

The signal from

the mountain top;

it bleeds the pieces

of your broken breath—

 

What escalated

madness I have drawn

from within your

vacant

 

Placebo

respirator,

tired from

simplification

of her cuneiform

palace,

 

Where one

would stalk the

night; in

Pooh pajamas,

 

Orienting South

towards her hiding

 

Place.

 

Seatbelt surrender,

an unpopular demise;

life’s organs

spilling out the sides

 

And as the world

decays,

so you and I

believe

 

&

Non ho capito

 

The text of

our indirection;

the gathering

frost, the way

you say

to me,

 

“I love you I

love you I love

you I love you

I love you,”

 

That makes me

glad to

be alive.


The Professor's Little Angel

  • Author: Maria Morisot
  • Published: 2015-10-04 23:50:12
  • Words: 2329
The Professor's Little Angel The Professor's Little Angel