Monday, September 16, 2013

Death is Behind / The Offer / One of Frédéric Chopin’s Nocturne’s Versus the Faces of Stoya

Rich Boucher

Rich Boucher lives, works, writes and performs steadily in Albuquerque, and is the occasional Guest Editor of the weekly poetry column “The DitchRider” at Rich’s poems have appeared in The Bicycle Review, Visceral Uterus, The Mas Tequila Review, The Camel Saloon, Apeiron Review, Brawler, The Subterranean Quarterly and The Nervous Breakdown, among others, and he has work forthcoming in The Lake, Menacing Hedge, The Broadkill Review and Gargoyle. Hear his poems at

Death is Behind

The perfume burned his eyes
holding tightly to her thighs
And something flickered for a minute
and then it vanished and was gone.”
– Lou Reed, Romeo Had Juliette

Death is behind the image of the girl

with her thick thighs as wide apart as goal posts;

death’s behind that girl with her fingers

holding the pink of her portal open for me;

death’s behind that girl keeping her clear high heels on

in that moonlight bed, on those silver silk sheets

in that room awash in a perfect, soft and creamy gloom;

death is behind that girl, hiding

like a small sun, with its faint golden light

peeking out from behind the edges of the sight of her

and I know I’ll never stop watching her:

as long as I keep my eyes closed she will always be there,

there in the same baby oil, thigh-highs, pearls and perfume place

where I know I last saw her in a dream,

there, there between me

and Death


The Offer


Weeks after we’d broken up, after the weeds on the ground gave way to the new flowers of the summer and the nights were full of fireflies and Ferris Wheels, she came up to me at the café we used to hang out at and told me that she and the girl she’d started seeing wanted to know if I would like to go out on a date with them. If I would like to go on a date with the both of them. If I would. After placing my eyes back into their sockets I asked her to repeat herself; I also asked her to repeat myself; I asked her to repeat everybody there because I was sure that all I could hear were police sirens and burning bushes. She told me that she and her girl were talking and that they wanted to be alone with me. She asked me if some night in the coming week would be good and as she asked me that angel wings came out of her back, and I worried that my breath was like the Devil’s. Somehow I had the composure to say sure. Sure, I’d be there. Sure, I’d love to. Sure, I’m able to jump off the roof of this place and fly like Captain Marvel over the city. Four hundred angels chorused Carmina Burana in the amphitheater of my chest but I didn’t let it show. A few days passed and in those days I kept polishing the chain mail of my desire and ambition, driving through every red light there ever was. I forgot to eat. By the time the next weekend came around I was as dangerous as a stick of old dynamite on a wobbly kitchen table. I saw her again at the café and this time she was with her girl. Her girl left their table and took me to the side to tell me that the date was off, that my ex had got cold feet about things. I said I understood and someone else used my face to smile; God probably found that very amusing. I said it was cool and Rodin’s Thinker finally stood up and walked away.


One of Frédéric Chopin’s Nocturne’s Versus the Faces of Stoya


I put on some music before sitting way back in my leather chair

in front of my bad, dirty-minded laptop, lube nearby;

before I realized it time was passing and the Nocturne was over;

Claire de Lune by Debussy was busy waterfalling notes out of the speakers

as I performed an image search of Stoya’s face in the winter,

which is to say I performed a search of what her face looks like in the winter,

not that it was winter when I performed the aforementioned search

and God help me, Google helped me to see her against white sheets,

white skin, little nipples, little red nipples and lips a dark red with a cigarette dangling,

lips pale pink pulled apart by fingers so thin as to pose like a mere imagining;

snow so warm to the touch I could almost leave reality

and meet her right there in my laptop screen;

I looked for her face in the summer, too, hoping for a fire to warm myself to

and found smoke like a small white fire rising from her open mouth

and I could have screamed but reached instead for what I needed to grasp;

I searched for Stoya’s face plus Armageddon plus me plus math plus her mouth

and came up with dozens of results for Marilyn Manson for some reason

and so I started again back button unbutton back button unbutton some more;

I searched again and again, typing and tapping with spit-slickened slippery fingertips;

I searched for Stoya’s face plus dark vampire tower in a black-and-white movie

and came up with nothing I could use with my bloodshot eyes at 1 AM

and so I closed them, performed a mental image search for Stoya that girl Stoya

and came up with countless results for Stoya grimacing painfully as his cock enters her ass

Stoya smirking as he shoots it hot all over her chest

Stoya letting herself get wrapped up in Saran Wrap against a pole in a garage

Stoya letting me get wrapped up in all this

the mix I made has come to the last song on the list

but I am not done; I could go for hours.

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