Crashing Cars, Dying Stars by Nicole Barth [4/22/11]

**inspired by "We're OK" by the Rescues and "Weeping Woman" by Picasso. Please keep this in mind while reading the poem. Below is the painting and the song. **

She streaked the indigo sadness through her hair

with every brush-stroke,

leaving a single strand

drenched in the crimson

of the heartbeats from a distant day.

The loved. The remnant. The triangular path through her face.

Go home, go home.

She watched it all burn down.

But she's got to start a riot.

Got to start a war against the

silver cracks in her facade.

She'll burn the cologne-filled trench coat

lying on the suede love seat.

Desert sand, weighing her down.

Agony. 

Paint the house green.

Rebirth, rebirth.

Night Fishing by Nicole Barth [4/22/11]

If I could fish the light

out of the ocean, I would.

Bury myself into the watery abyss

of shimmering fish scales and momentary silence.

I'd invite you to dance along the fossilized fish hooks

—paralyzed with their anticipation—

and sink beneath your iron expectations.

Your gluttony for all that you think you know...

The cemented castles of your belief looming high above you:

leave them rotting along the pavement

as your lungs fill with the impregnated salt water.

Let your water-color memories bleed

into the obsidian of the night.

Exhale your toxic dreams.

*inspired by "Night Fishing at Antibes" by Pablo Picasso

#?!%!! by Nicole Barth [4/21/11]

The Plague of first period lecturing

barreled on ad infinitum—like Protestant Fathers

in the years of 666.

Surely, we were experiencing the Hell

the Londoners believed in,

sitting in this puerile classroom

with the heater on full blast.

The—last thing I want to be learning about.

Great—is my need to stain this bleached dress of mine with true soil; with Missouri mud.

Fire—whoever decided to chain me to this chipping desk so early in the morning.

1666—reasons why I don't want to be here.

Pinched the nerve between my tolerance and sanity

as he did/could/will shove another unwanted dose

of syntax and single verb conjugations

down my throat.

Bleed the pen dry.

Punch the patience out of you.

Layer upon layer of typed brushstrokes:

Edit. Delete. Destroy.

Blank canvas: new document.

Zero willpower.

Train car epiphany.

I have orphaned the

hectically sketched optimism

—thriving within the tea-stained pages—

in the abyss of

blackboards and deadlines.

Strike two. 

I'd Make You Beautiful by Nicole Barth [4/13/11]

Oh, I could paint you grey,

for all the promises we've made.

I could paint you clear

'cause you're still lovely to me.

You're scattered between the field of clovers,

near the rifles we burried long ago.

I could paint you red,

to show you how your syllables

course through me.

I could paint you gold—malleable laughter.

And all the things we talked about,

farther and glistening

with miles of concrete in between.

Or I could paint you imperfectly,

with the fear in your eyes.

I could paint you clear.

It's not very colorful,

but you're still lovely to me.  

EAST and WEST by Nicole Barth [4/4/11]

Choking on my own key strokes,

I can feel you lingering between

every stanza as the memory

of you washes over me.

Where do you think you're going with my heart?

I thought I'd successfully disposed of this seasick feeling.

You've got me oscilatting like a pendelum

as I sway between denial and a tarnished need.

But you're more than...more than.

The mellifluous tone of your voice

—like vapor—finds it's way into

the caverns of my mind.

So maybe I'm stuck in a world of

scarlet gowns and second chances,

but your midnight confessions

leave me catching the breath that rattles in my chest.

Oh, and these ink stained pages will tell me otherwise.

But I'll dig my feet into this upward slope

until the panicked fingers of uncertainty release their grip.