Gin Lullaby

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He use to bring life to
every party.
Gin in one hand, cigar
in the other.
A bruised lampshade
on his
bullwhip head, his eyes
spoke
of lordship, rosehip, and
fleshly ways.
His voice full of vigor and
showmanship.
Capable of love but only
from a
great distance. Happy only
in his
natural void. Pockmarked,
by ego.
He tasted the brightness
of the world
but only found nourishment
in darkness.
Drinking the toxins in.
Measuring
his happiness one more
glass at a time.

Years later…

He had drank his beauty
away
His graceless ruins
reflected in
the walls, missing cells in
his brain.
He tried to navigate to open
eyes and
enlightenment, but could
never find
a sober shore. Consumed
by thirst
Staggering. He stumbled over
his demons.
He fractured his skull on an
unlit chandelier,
fusing with the shadows and unpruned roses.
Alcohol struck a match to
stove
leaking gas. He died on the
pyre of his addiction.
The debris, the inspiration
of this poet
forlorn and cautionary imagination.
His gin soaked ashes circling
forever in the breeze.
For a moment I abandon
myself to their sway.

-Tosha Michelle

A Town Called Phenylalanine

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Dedicated to J.R and P.S. (CCC)

He was a town that should
have come with a warning sign.
“Abandon all sanity, those
who enter here.”
Souls arriving but few departing.
He’d give them the key to the city
and his razor kisses.

Kisses that spoke of madness
on the confused mouths
of women lacking reason.
Always something thievish
in his eyes.

He was such a sweet talking void.
Yet, when you needed him,
he was never available for comment.
Still, if he moved backwards,
they would follow on their knees.

She passed through briefly
a few years back
and decided to return,
always enamored with the scenery.
Clytia, yearning for Apollo,
so sure the town she recalled
was heavenly.
Refusing to look
away from the sun.
Reciting some stupid
myth she had created.

When she arrived back
to where she was, she
found he had uprooted
and moved on.
flowers scattered everywhere.

Leaving behind hearts
and one stop streetlights
dangling from the wire.
His hat left on one of
his lover’s porches.
Now a fun house
of screams and horror.
Residue of tears, lingering,
stagnant in air of disillusionment

A lone dog wails in the
distance.

She stands godless.
Covered in numbness,
a few cherry blossoms
who’ve lost their cue
for timing, tragically,
drift by.

Lost and disillusioned.
Her detachment mask
slips to rage.
Her high heels do an
improvised voodoo dance
in dirt.
Trying to crush his name
before she becomes
part of the crumbling
debris.

-Tosha Michlle

My cover of Christina Perri”Jar Of Hearts” My talented father on electric guitar

“And who do you think you are?
Runnin’ ’round leaving scars
Collecting your jar of hearts
And tearing love apart
You’re gonna catch a cold
From the ice inside your soul
So don’t come back for me
Who do you think you are?”

A Bottle of Scotch

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He loves the tall, sleek package
you come in. How his body trembles
a little when he holds you. His hand
refusing to be steady. He loves what
you do to him on nights when it’s
just the two of you.. How you let
him drink from your core until he
is so
consumed with you,
he can’t
stand up anymore.

You are such a vixen. You aren’t
satisfied until every cell of
his body
is whimpering. He always gives
you that. You know you can have
him any way you want. When
you’re finished with him, you
sit and watch as he curls up
into a ball, facing the wall.

In the morning he’ll awake
with an
aching head and a heart sick
stomach that comes from
loving you too well. The sheen
of pleasure gone. The guise
of ecstasy of those who
destroy everything they touch.

What Type of Man is He?

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What type of man is he?

He’s of the tall and handsome variety
Bright, witty, well schooled in inky places.
He’ll seduce you with the sweet cadence
of his voice, making you think of velvet,
ivory towers, the first sip of hot chocolate,
and the fragrant smells of fall.

He’s the type of man who knows
how to wear his clothes. Fashionable.
fitted to his slender, masculine physique.
He is habit forming to the eyes
Sexy glaucoma. Sparking a fever
with this sentence, which ends
with an ache.

He’s the type of man who will appeal to
your darker places with his Machiavellian
maneuvers. Your upper and lower body
engaged in political debate. One part
rallying for a call to action
(la Marquise De Merteuil)
The other wholly disapproving. A rebellion
stirred in ungodly places. Places that
will beget and begat desire.
Remember even in the Bible
all that begetting and begatting
ended in tragedy.

He’s the type of man who can unbound
the tightest of books. beautifully,
unfairly. He’ll draw the words out
like the sweetest, stickiest of
taffy. The pages anxious to please,
willing to set fire to themselves if
he finds them lacking.

He’s the type of man who’s engaging, entrancing,
so very hard to resist. Touch if you dare.
He’s a stunning disaster. One you can’t
turn away from. The type of man
you will be fatally drawn to. If you touch him,
you both may suffer. Yes, I know. He’s so magnetic,
but he’s a danger zone. One you know, you
shouldn’t enter, one you must not enter,
but if you are anything like me, you just
might anyway.

-Tosha Michelle

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