Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

she can’t feel pain/dermis dreams
in miles away/ infinite thickness
left to penetrate/while heavy sun-browned skin
masks an earthen shield/except for these thin winter scapes
of tits and ass/as lifeless blue lips struggle to drink
from a frozen solid bay/and golden ringed eyes
peer into see/while she listens for the sound

profound relief washes over his face/as hammer
strikes chisel/into this reluctant insanity/he plays
a melody of show and tell/slowly unshackling
the controlled/mummified gut shots
of the lost/the perfectly staged emptiness
where the past is found
after a time

rested under cloud trees/a gentled
reflection/gazes after reel upon reel in life’s

Photo by Alvin Mahmudov on Unsplash

I had every intention of only writing a list of S.O.P’s (standard operating procedures). A logical, well-thought-out letter, limited to introducing you, my dear brother, to some new rules, a.k.a. my boundaries! This piece of paper will consist mostly of prohibited topics of discussion. I choose not to have these types of conversations with you in the hopes that we may begin to build a completely new relationship.

Writing and sharing this listy letter would only require a small bit of risk on my part — a tinge of vulnerability. Protecting my heart is where I begin. …

Photo by Jr Korpa on Unsplash

catchin zz’s on a city porch, deaf to the sycophantic sounds of El Farol,
not a care in the world,
a slip of silvery red lifts her head, to spot this human watcher,
curiosity frames her dreamy face, contentment oozing — she stretches in the warm, cedar tree-lined shadows

is you tummy full on city strays? I haven’t seen a squirrel in days —

her mysterious den pondered, slips into dusk discerning notes,
and awakens the illusive power found in nots —
not to conform, not to confront, not to be country prey
this essence of her’s dances to me on…

Photo by Nicolas COMTE on Unsplash

poor you, in unrequited loves’ story

self-pity becomes you — on some other planet,
in some other universe, on some unborn galaxy —

can’t you take a hint? respect your damn self,
enough to not waste precious time — the only finite gift given —
on some idiot who can’t receive your beauty, while
there is someone, and someone else, and another —
who will cherish you

the real world waits patiently for you to
wake up to the present moment —

Oh to be in love with love itself — really
is a beautiful thing, but only after

Photo by Daniel Gregoire on Unsplash

On our knees, we sublime, prostrate ourselves to each,
human and divine

With one reverent touch, an answer to worship’s resolve,
an intoxicating residue is created, in the places

A steady gaze, our glimpse, cradles this moment,
into ecstasies footed round, a blissful movement in desire

Until we, once enchanted, are left wanting, in another’s cast

©Annine Massaro, 2021

Thank you J.D. Harms for a wonderful prompt! I have been reading a book by Nancy Qualls-Corbett, entitled The Sacred Prostitute — Eternal Aspect of the Feminine when I received this prompt and of all crazy, beautiful synchronistic…

Photo by Alex Ware on Unsplash

No white bird cryin, just this possessed lil’ italian girl’s quiet revolution,
to escape that night, worthy of a princely price,
privileged to carry the unshed anger, the swallowed tears,

can you see me? no longer coherent, his spirit waiting for the eldest son to say goodbye,
can you hear me? they said he was making too much noise, disturbing other patients throughout the night, the drone and faceless staff — he was suffering, the answer given when asked,

fuck you/no one gave permission for more morphine/he was awake and alert yesterday/how is this fair? each screaming word sewing her…

Annine Massaro original watercolor ©2021

Photo by William Daigneault on Unsplash

mechanical sex drive, choked out real life,
fueling plastic air, an indifferent addiction,
potent pain medicine, no blurry lines to ponder,
extreme life left to rot and spoil, absent an anchored middle ground,
bloody exposures covered, no tourniquet for the heavy heads, leaking an intricate web of half-truths,
sweet hope,
another taste throws the merciful heart off scale, only a shattered justice given to rescue those that have been taken,
escape from real life had become real life, and oh…before you go, just as a ceremonial last gesture, a salute if you please, a funeral shovel full of fear —
we’ll do away with…

Photo by Keagan Henman on Unsplash

Say, who’s got it on lock? horse shit, nothing more than a crock,
the gilded golden rule, insanity of me,
a head shaking, internal crying, deeper lying, issues, hey baby — get you some tissues, still clingin to an unbeknownst suicidal ride called s e p a r a t i o n?

humpy dumpty falls again, to pandering crowds, in a wartime mix,
amongst shooting arrows, of images and sounds,
a battle for our mind space, is attention with haste really attention at all?
the penning of our precious, precious time,

or is it really the minority, fear…

Annine Massaro

Poetess, Lover of the divinity of language, Champion of the Healing Power of Poetry. I write to be made whole.

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