Cyntax

Battle-Maiden

An intercepted message brought me much madness and a fit of righteous anger, both red and fiery.  But time was short and distractions would have to wait.  I didn’t sleep the night before I was supposed to slay the dragon.  A woman in distress doesn’t get the press it used to so I wore the leather and lace costume of a battle-maiden, shield and sword at the ready.  The sweeter enchantments of the earth and sky had left me at the city limits.  Going in alone, knowing survival favors the fittest.  With steely nerves, I decided to stick with the plan.  My weapons were sharpened and my will determined.  I did not expect you there; I wouldn’t have guessed it.  A fighting stance had shackled my heart in irons and left me cold and nearly wicked.  But no worries, your familiar laughter undid it.          

The end of the world came in on a rush of wings

But not angel wings, mister.  I swear to God, I saw the whole thing.  The city was dead quiet at ten after two.  The witching hour—you know it well.  Yes, I had a couple drinks.  Well, I’m drinking gin now, if you must know.  Why?  Because juniper berries are timeless.  Jesus.  Stop judging.  I can hear you muttering in your head, even halfway around the world.  Anyway, a city bus went by with flashers on, a homeless man offered me a cigarette—no, I still don’t smoke.  The whole thing went up in flames.  My dreams and regrets, I mean.  I thought of you and that was that.  Sat down on the curb and picked at a run in my black nylons.  Pigeons fluttered overhead, wide awake and out of bed.  Missed you.  Haven’t stopped since.        

Transcendentalism

There, on that stage—the old theater fell into ruin after the rock of ages rolled to a stop but we’ll see what we can do with the place.  Hang a few curtains, paint a gaudy backdrop that resembles India in a sweltering summer heat or Vienna as the red leaves begin to fall off the brown trees.  You’ll see.  It’s no trouble at all.   

Give me his address and I’ll go punch J. Alfred in the face

Do I dare to eat a peach?

What a stupid question. 

Do you like peaches? Are they delicious?

Then eat it.  And stop bothering me. 

He spoke mangled, ghetto French and she was a borderland beauty

He was smiling and smoking a cigarette while hailing a taxi at ten after two on St. Catherine’s Street.  She was wild-child drunk and recently barefoot, dancing on a street bench to the bi-national anthem she improvised (and improved) in under three minutes.

C’était chouette.
 

Belladonna

I wish it would storm,
pounding rain against the pavement and
lightning white hot and sprawling across
a mid-summer sky. The ground
is parched and so am I.
I’m thirsty for violence of a natural kind,
a howling wind against these brick walls,
a clap of thunder overhead. Hail and snow
and rain at once; it’s not omens or signs
I’m seeking, just a passionate declaration
that rocks my very soul.