<%@LANGUAGE="JAVASCRIPT" CODEPAGE="1252"%> Horror article by Relf

 


Happy Valentine’s Day!
Love Sucks. . .

by Terrie Leigh Relf

Okay. Love doesn’t suck. Not really. Unless, of course, you’re speaking of the love of a vampyre.

Take a moment, if you will, to consider how “we” have been “set-up” by the greeting card industry, the floral industry, the chocolate industry, the jewelry and lingerie industry, ad nauseum ad infinitum. . .to need, to want—to obsess over—being gifted and loved and spoiled on this day in particular—despite its bloody history.

Love’s presence and absence occurs year-round. Isn’t that delightful to know? You don’t have to wait for “that special day” to experience the torture inherent in these socially-constructed mating and dating rituals. Life is stressful enough, isn’t it? Besides, love sucks all year long—and bites, too.

Consider the following scenario. . .

Girl gets asked out on date. Boy cancels date. Girl forgives boy. Boy asks girl out again.

Boy cancels date while she is all dressed up and wondering what happened to him. Boy calls next day to apologize. Girl really likes boy, believes boy’s excuses (which have been good both times. . .really good. . .), and so agrees to go out on another date. Boy promises he won’t cancel again.

Boy cancels again. Girl is now angry. Really angry. What does girl do?

(Long pause while you visualize all the possibilities of what boy deserves and what girl may or may not do. Enjoy!)

NoNoNoNoNo!

Girl writes poem about how mad she is at boy. It was boy’s idea. Really. True story. I kid you not.

So, if you’re into revenge (e.g., dumping manure into his/her new convertible; posting nasty remarks about her/him on the web; setting fire to everything he/she ever gave you on his/her lawn; etc.), remember that it ALWAYS comes back to haunt you—exponentially! So, why not refocus your attention on alchemy, and transmute the raw emotion(s) of your choice into a poem. You can create an entire universe of pain with words—and it’s still legal.

Really. I kid you not.

So, how to get started? Just as you would any other poem. . .vent on the page. . .then give it some shape. . .breathe life and purpose into it.. .After all, it’s just a poem. . .a fictional construction. No real harm comes to them. It’s not a black magic spell or anything. . .

And if you’re incredibly brave (or foolhardy), do what this poet did and send poem(s) to boy. . .They scared boy big time and made this poet smile. More so now than then, though. More so now than then.

Think about it. . .didn’t most of the great (and some not so great) poets write about love in all its mysterious—and mystifying—guises? We have Robert Browning’s “Porphyria’s Lover”, one of my all-time favorite “love” poems (available at: http://www.englishverse.com/poems/porphyrias_lover); William Blake’s “Love’s Secret” (available at: http://www.englishverse.com/poems/loves_secret); the works of Shakespeare (available at: http://shakespeare.mit.edu/); then there’s Pablo Neruda (available at: http://www.english.emory.edu/Bahri/Neruda.html); oh—and Anne Sexton! (available here).

Look on the bright side--and I don’t mean the Hallmark section! You don’t have to journey across the galaxy to read a poem about love! Hope and fear, obsession and compulsion, attraction and revulsion—and all this greatly misunderstood and misrepresented emotion spawns—is just a click (or a page) away.

Yes--real love is painful. Exquisitely painful. It gives us nightmares and daymares and makes us shudder with revulsion at how vulnerable we really are.

Heavy sigh. . .

So, rather than getting a soup spoon and that jar of nutella, read some Shakespeare, some Browning, some Poe, then settle in with a much smaller, more refined spoon, and a pint of your favorite “special reserve” ice cream (my favorite is the chocolate-bloodsicle, with a bit of cherry swirl. . .) Or better yet, get all dressed up and visit el café de la noche to dine at that “other” table. . .I hear that Bettina is having a party on Valentine’s Day for the solo nightcrawler scene.

Be sure to wear scarlet and you’ll get in for free!

Here are a few of my poems that tell the tales of women loved and scorned, women longing for love, and other variations on this—and related—themes:


The new barrista at el café de la noche

asks, “would you like room?”

The patron nods, licks her lips
as he reaches beneath the counter
for the red syrup, uncorks it with flair
and a meaningful gaze.

Her pupils dilate in response,
her needs apparent as metallic
and sweet, the scent wafts toward
the other patrons, who squirm,
look away, attempt to hide their shudders
of revulsion, of curiosity.

One brave guy gazes at her, notes the sensual
fullness of her lips as she pouts her mouth over
descending canines, reaches for, takes the to-go cup
in both hands after slipping an extra twenty
into the tip jar.

The barrista says, “good-bye”, with
a jut of his chin, a lingering glance as
she sashays out to the patio, lifts the lid,
lingers over the pungent scent of O+ --
just the right amount of O+ in her morning coffee.

(Okay. The above needs revision. . .Love, like a poem-in-process--is also RAW!)

Here’s another one. See if you recognize yourself—or someone else you know—in this bit of fun:


My friend who still refuses to date

says “relationships are like
broken elevators--what goes up
eventually comes down…

unless, of course,
someone decides to leap off,”
she adds with a grimace,
lifting up a pant leg
to reveal old wounds
in various stages
of healing.

“Maybe I’ll try one of those
new dating services,”
she adds, looking askance at the guy
who just walked into the café.

“He’s too young for you,”
I tell her, but she shakes her head
says, “old enough”.

I watch as they exchange
cell numbers,
e-mail addresses,
cards,
wonder how long he’ll last
before she rips him apart,
sucks the marrow
from his bones. . .

Note: This one is in my upcoming poetry collection from Sam’s Dot Publishing, My friend, the poet, and other poems about people I think I know.

This one is rather recent, and yes, it’s not a revenge poem, but it is what I refer to as “writing out the demons”!


Love’s Ritual Goblet of Fire

You hand me the ritual goblet, and

the first sip burns as you tattoo

your name and dark purpose deep

beneath my heart. I don’t want

any more, can’t handle any more

but you press the cup to my lips

persuade me to keep drinking. . .

I can barely breathe. . .one sip follows

another until I gasp for air until the

dragon in my belly unfurls takes wing

and you watch as I drink past

oblivion each taste an incantation

binding, each swallow giving me

to the pyre.


The following poem is one of my personal favorites, and was previously published in Dark Krypt, I believe. (NOTE: If I could refrain from having my own heart gnawed on, perhaps I’d keep better track of my publication history!)

Sleeping Beauty wasn't really sleeping

you think you’re safe now
finally resting in that
dark womb of twilight sleep
an anodyne for the pain of that first kiss
the lingering sigh when
her eyes fluttered open when
she reached for and pulled you
into her crystal coffin so very
long ago that you barely recall
what came next and you pray not to
remember what came next how she took you
before you could take her how she
ravished you before you could ravish
her how she then passion spent raked
your back with poisoned claws
closed the lid said sleep my love
sleep until I have need of you again

I thought I’d end with this one. Have you ever felt that you’re involved with the same person century after century, and you would just love to work out the karmic debt and be done with it once and for all?

Well, here’s a poem about THAT. . .I have others in process. . .

Don’t Turn Around


finally
I’m alone
but he’s still here
in my mind
beneath my skin

his stream merging with mine

so many nights
of dreaming him
legs drifting together
fingers trailing through swells

then his breath
a cascade
over the mound of my shoulder
his words a torrent against my ear
the shore carved away when he says
“trust me”        and I say “yes”
because this is just a fantasy begun in a dream

I feel Cocytus’ undertow
am dragged down
my voice a mute trail
of bubbles

I hear echoes

follow them further into the depths
pass shadows weeping
I am Eurydice
calling out to him
don’t turn around
don’t
turn around
please
don’t
turn
a
round

So, enough of my poetic ramblings. . .I hope you’re writing now, as it’s the only thing I’ve discovered that really and truly helps to unclog those arteries and get the blood flowing again.

 

© Relf, 2008


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