FEMME NOIR

THE POETRY OF BRITT WARNER

[the-red-moon-cries]

[the-red-moon-cries]

the-red-moon-cries:

No hand has touched this skin

But mine 

But mine

For countless days

And endless nights

No hand has touched this skin

But mine

Wilting as I bloom

Sneering as I swoon

Living loving crying

We’ll be dying all too soon

No point no point no point

Knowing knowing knowing

How it will end

Before we start

So I remain alone

In my head

And I remain alone

In my bed

And endure temptation

That remains unfed

To ensure that the longing

Remains dead

Still, I remember in glimpses:

Warm mouth

Soft skin

Sweat dripping

Pheromones

Heady, lush desire

Given, taken

Taken, given

Gone

Oh, the gone

Is never worth the get

I’ve filled my hole back up

I’m keen to forget

Won’t dig another

No point no point no point

Knowing knowing knowing

How it will end

Before we start

~Britt Warner~

[the-red-moon-cries]

Objets d' Affection

Autumn rain glazes my bare arms 

Like icing on a cake you'll never taste.

Salivate, don't satiate,

Better to want

Than to have.

Lust alive, fantasize, but

Better to want

Than to have.

Take your place at my side,

We've arrived to attend

A funeral for my muses,

All of you, all of them,

Unworthy, ungrateful

Objets d'affection.

No matter,

Splitter-splatter,

Downpour slows its chatter

To drawling drip-drops

That cascade off the tops

Of leaves from trees above

And land upon my cheek

Where tears should be and aren't.

No warrant for emotion,

Poison's long since been bled out,

Black ink assaulting innocent paper,

Crimes of others transcribed by my hand.

A mad man births

A mad woman births

A life of bad decisions,

The death of good revisions,

And every stabbing second in between

Is numbed into submission.

Better to want

Than to have.

by Britt Warner

[the-red-moon-cries]

Golden Boy

Call me crazy,

But I know what I saw

And I know what I heard

And I know what I felt.

Sure, it was a blur,

Maybe it was hazy,

Perhaps it was a lapse

In logic and reason,

A treason of senses

Failing attention to detail,

But to derail was a thrill,

A wild ride, a delight,

After a life spent

Obediently clinging 

To the tracks.

Call me crazy,

But I know what I saw

And I know what I heard

And I know what I felt

And I know that you felt it, too.

So now I stalk you,

Hunt you, prey upon

The moves you'll never make,

The words you'll never say,

The love you'll never give

Beyond that night,

The morning after,

The dreams in which

Your warmth and laughter

Radiate through the cracks

Of my sad smile

And pierce the bleakness

Of my dark soul

And wrap me in 

A morphine blanket

From the inside out,

Killing every last lingering

Organism of doubt.

Call me crazy,

But your skin smelled

Like sunshine,

And your glow will haunt me

Until the end of time.

[the-red-moon-cries]

The Thirsty Crow

He said he'd buy me a drink

If I told him my story.

"It's a long one," I warned.

He said that one line would do.

"Native Californian seeking Jameson and jazz."

"Whiskey over bourbon?"

I nodded and shrugged.

"Something in the way it hits my tongue."

"I'm from Kentucky, so maybe I'm biased."

I agreed a-ha-moment emphatically,

As though this was the explanation

Of the century.

"You just missed Happy Hour,"

He noted with chagrin.

I waved a hand dismissively.

"Any hour can be happy,

Though prices may vary."

"Well this one costs 

Twelve instead of six."

I didn't ask him his story,

In one line or otherwise,

And bought my own drink

For nine bucks plus tip.

I raised my glass high,

Then brought it to my lips,

And the band began to play

As I took my first sip.

[the-red-moon-cries]

DIGGING DITCHES

  I fantasize about digging ditches.

  I picture calling my boss on the phone

To tell him I’m quitting

And his shocked reaction when I explain why.

  I would trade in my non-descript sedan

For a beat-up Chevy truck, circa 1987.

I can see the shovel sitting in the back.

It has a long wooden body that

Will give me splinters if I

Don’t wear work gloves.

  On the truck’s front bench seat,

There’s a plastic red canteen

Filled with red Kool-Aid and ice.

I can hear the ice cubes knocking

Against the sides as I drive down

Bumpy dirt roads, unpaved and dry,

The dust rising up in clouds

All around my red truck, heavy-duty

Tires grinding into the red earth.

  I remember this place.

The surroundings are familiar,

And I realize I’ve returned

To the land where I grew up.

Not much has changed in the

Time that I’ve been gone.

Same mountains, same trees,

Just a little bit older.

  At last, I’ve reached the end

And I pull over to the side,

Parking against a field of

Yellow-flowered weeds and foxtails.

  The driver’s side door groans as it opens;

Its hinges have grown cranky and rusted.

The sound of it slamming closed

Is strangely gratifying.

  I reach into the bed of the pick-up

And grab my wooden shovel,

But didn’t think to bring any gloves.

  At the base of a rock face,

I plunge the metal spade into

Soil that is neither soft nor hard.

The steady repetition of digging

Creates a soothing hum within

And every muscle in my body grows warm.

Striking, pulling, lifting, tossing,

The hours pass unnoticed but for the

Sweat on my skin, drenching my clothing

As the afternoon sun beats down

With unwavering intensity, its red rays

Burning my olive complexion red hot.

My arms begin to throb with fatigue,

Protesting that they are too weak

To go on, and I notice I’ve

Hit the six-foot mark.

  It is then that I know what

Purpose this ditch will serve,

And why I yearned to dig it.

  It is here that I shall bury my heart,

Here that I shall bury my spirit,

Here that I shall bury my soul,

Here that I must lay to rest

All of the beauty and love I once possessed,

Now dead, lifeless, ugly, decaying,

And I must dispose of the evidence

Before the stench hits the air,

Before others catch wind of the truth.

  Into the grave, the corpse of all

That’s been murdered is placed.

  The splinters in my hands begin

To sting and throb as I slowly

Fill the ditch back up with the

Dirt I’d just dug out.

I listen to it pelt down upon

My still, unmoving dreams,

Covering and concealing the

Knife wounds, the tears,

The protests that had fallen on

Cruel, deaf ears, and the red, red blood.

  With the flat side of the shovel,

I pat the earth down, flattening

The awkward mound in an effort

To disguise the disruption of the landscape.

I pick some dandelions growing

Wild nearby and blow their spores

Absentmindedly over the surface

Of the covered ditch, hoping they

Might be inspired to grow in this spot.

  I pick eucalyptus leaves and scatter

Them across the grave, their fragrance

Rubbed into my splintered palms.

   I place rocks here and there,

Arranging them just-so, finding solace

In their smooth, cool forms.

  I stand back and survey my work,

My eyes burning and bloodshot and red.

The killer is still on the loose,

Free to continue taking innocent lives

As he sees fit, and I now

Mourn the loss of my own.

  It is a quiet, confronting funeral,

Seeing as how I am the only

Guest in attendance, lacking the

Foresight to invite anyone else.

Footsteps fall in the distance, and

Turning around, I notice that a

Select few knew to show up anyway.

They offer condolences, vengeance,

Gifts, but their presence is

All that I need or desire.

  I leave my shovel, my truck, my death,

And trust these stars to guide me home.

The red moon cries all the tears

That I can not, and I never

Fantasize about digging ditches again.

    (~written by Britt Warner on June 5, 2011~)