Marie C. Lascu
Marie Lascu has lived her whole life in Michigan, and after a quarter of a century, is finally running away. She has had 30 poems
published in various online and print zines since 2004, thanks to the guidance and generosity of John Dorsey. Currently she
works at a concert venue in Royal Oak, MI, and come June she has no idea, but it is high time writing began to take center stage.
This effort will materialize with the aid of a little publishing company she and her boyfriend are in the process of birthing, which is
dubbed Goat Song Books. http://marieclascu.com, emofights.blogspot.com
published in various online and print zines since 2004, thanks to the guidance and generosity of John Dorsey. Currently she
works at a concert venue in Royal Oak, MI, and come June she has no idea, but it is high time writing began to take center stage.
This effort will materialize with the aid of a little publishing company she and her boyfriend are in the process of birthing, which is
dubbed Goat Song Books. http://marieclascu.com, emofights.blogspot.com
Collider
(for Billy)
The beauty of the dreams,
stunning and overcast like the shade
cascading over my face from the underside of my palm.
I hold you and tuck in
fears with every deep breath,
sweet perfumes mixed diligently
in some imaginarium to woo us
into immobile dozes.
Fight through a stiffening sand of broken up universes,
parts of lost worlds accumulated over hundreds of billions of years
through some ingrained and whimsical sadness,
which cuts a path through the old and never-ending out there
and leads to this one point to strike a match
for the living.
Is it this thing that chides us,
guides your hands over keys and through graphite,
pushes my thoughts to things I dream and haven't the gut to write?
Feeling clearer than we can see,
the fear rides up too far in our throats
and clamps hard.
I push harder to free you up, leaving no room for my inventions,
orchestrating the perfect excuse to abandon what seeks to punch
all the way through.
Bug still in my stomach,
and I don't have any better ideas.
Let's leave and haunt the roads of the world:
stumble, run, fly,
awake and outnumbered, but still awake, love.
The dreams are good for the daytime.
(for Billy)
The beauty of the dreams,
stunning and overcast like the shade
cascading over my face from the underside of my palm.
I hold you and tuck in
fears with every deep breath,
sweet perfumes mixed diligently
in some imaginarium to woo us
into immobile dozes.
Fight through a stiffening sand of broken up universes,
parts of lost worlds accumulated over hundreds of billions of years
through some ingrained and whimsical sadness,
which cuts a path through the old and never-ending out there
and leads to this one point to strike a match
for the living.
Is it this thing that chides us,
guides your hands over keys and through graphite,
pushes my thoughts to things I dream and haven't the gut to write?
Feeling clearer than we can see,
the fear rides up too far in our throats
and clamps hard.
I push harder to free you up, leaving no room for my inventions,
orchestrating the perfect excuse to abandon what seeks to punch
all the way through.
Bug still in my stomach,
and I don't have any better ideas.
Let's leave and haunt the roads of the world:
stumble, run, fly,
awake and outnumbered, but still awake, love.
The dreams are good for the daytime.