Poetry & Prose

Poetry and prose from feminist writer Darrah de jour.

Daisy Sighs

In her crib she twists with a snorting nose

waiting for me to fix it.

Her skin melts the touch. Softer than the softest petal.

Her laughing is sudden and contagious. Her smiles are a game of Where’s Waldo.

So gratifying is Daisy.

 

Her hair is full and plenty – from the start. Dark and light both. Eyebrows of blonde and orange.

She holds my finger so tightly. Sometimes, her nails scratch me when she’s startled.

Gripping for safety. I’ll keep you safe.

All of life is worth another ticking clock and exhale; when Daisy sighs.

 

Can’t wait to see you in the morning, Daisy!

Reaching for her and pulling her in. Smelling her unique baby scent. Every eyelash, I’ve memorized.

I’ll spend eternity remembering you.

My sweet petal of a girl. So furiously strong for your size. Every want I will meet as I can, sweet Daisy.

Your music already has me under your spell. Your daddy too.

 

The clicking keys have woken you. As you daydream in bed. About the books we read you, perhaps? The puppets we

model in front of your face? The sparkling, glittery lights of the tranquil turtle toy? Or the brand new faces that peer into your path, before your protective mommy pushes them away, by covering you with a blanket.

Or maybe, milk. Expressed from my breasts. For your life to continue with vigor. My breath of spring. Oh, Daisy.

Healthy and strong. Happy and deliciously addictive. A field of life beside me everyday! How lucky I’ve become. Everyday.

Daisy… my daisy… my daisy… my daisy.


Share on LinkedInSubmit to StumbleUponhttp://darrahdejour.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/Screen-Shot-2014-02-04-at-11.33.06-PM-e1391586787112-500x420.pngDigg ThisSubmit to redditShare on TumblrShare on MyspaceShare via email

Ann Coulter’s Vagina


I wonder if Ann Coulter’s vagina wants to revolt against her. Devise a powerful plan for some desperate exit. Does it seethe with jealousy at detachable penises? Does it long to ooze red blood all over her stick thin couture? Between menstruation and the next presidential inauguration it waits like a sleeping Cobra for her next faux paus. To further harden and become a sterling statue of a private part. Once soft and amorous to the touch, it – unlike her devilish persona – rots in private.

Few have eaten here. Many have died.

 

 

c. Darrah Le Montre, 2014

Share on LinkedInSubmit to StumbleUponhttp://darrahdejour.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/20100115152653Virginia_new_sign-500x344.jpgDigg ThisSubmit to redditShare on TumblrShare on MyspaceShare via email

Newcastle

CRI_147112

by Darrah Le Montre

When I was eighteen, I allowed my then-girlfriend to move into my furnished-upon-request one bedroom apartment on Newcastle Avenue in Encino. I had badly wanted to move to Sherman Oaks, which I valued as “much cooler” and told my father so, from the back seat of his SUV. My mom rode shotgun, nervously applying and re-applying liberal amounts of rhubarb Clinique lipstick in this way she does. She makes a blowup doll O with her lips, then drags that wine red stick over into the crevices of the O where it slims at the sides. Drag stick, repeat. Drag stick, repeat. She pulls out a box of sugar-free spearmint gum. Before I say anything, she extends her arm over her headrest and drops a naked slice onto my sweaty palm. I toss it into my mouth. We both share a gum and Diet Coke addiction. She knows about the boys I’ve fucked, the STD scare, the pot and even the speed — but only somewhere. Somewhere in the back of her mind, like those secret veins I’ve seen leering behind her eyelids; popping out like a Jack-In-The-Box at only two distinct times: when she’s trying to make me laugh or is so angry she resembles the last human standing during Zombie Apocalypse. She won’t ‘fess to knowing, and years later, when I admit to relapsing, she repeats like a Hare Krishna sixteen round chant, “I didn’t know! I really didn’t know!” I’m not sure I believe her, but it really doesn’t matter too much anymore. I’ve already blamed her.

“No! Encino is nicer. How many times do I have to say this? Diane, you tell her,” my father shouts from the driver’s seat.

“She wants to live in Sherman Oaks. It’s cooler there.” My mom offers, then shoots me a look in the side mirror.

“It’s not that far from Encino! It’s the same degree of heat. Sherman Oaks is not Santa Monica!” he determines, then smiles at me from the rear view mirror, like Paul Ryan assuring old folks at Jewish Home for the Aging, ‘See, we’re on the same page.’

“Not cooler like hot and cold. Jesus, David. Cooler, like, COOL. Cool, fun, hip.” She opens her purse again, shuffles its contents, then re-zips it.

I sit back in the seat. Leaning forward is a nervous habit that puts me in false control. I even push their seats like a zealous teenager kicking the chair in front of him at the cinema. Except I’m pushing with my hands in a metaphorical Atlas Shits type position. Pushing them out out and away from me like a bad turd that’s wrecking my bowels, my intestinal fortitude slipping. Thinning, paper pliable, every almond I eat shreds my insides and I’m downing Tums several times a day to ease the pain.

“Are you OK?” My mother asks.

“I’m fine.”

“She’s fine, Diane. Stop babying her.” My father lectures paternalistically.

There, ready and willing to be right, but when it comes to the actual protecting part, he dodges the draft and hides out in Canada, or rather, his makeshift office in the garage.

The hum of the dryer is one of the only sounds, even still, that calms me to the point of utter saturation. I melt into the moment, and a sort of Holy Spirit-like glee comes over me. I glide aimlessly around the house, and feel God like I used to when I ate my mother’s homemade white rice with mushroom soup splashed on top. All the while avoiding the big piece of hard meat she stuck in the corner of the plate. Dinners were spent begging me to eat the meat she’d prepared, that the rest of the family gleefully gobbled down. They never stole my piece because half the family had germ phobia (which I now have) and the other half was teased mercilessly by my father at dinners, and they feared reaching over and having him slap their hand.

The garage where he hid out was dubbed (by me) as The Dungeon. “The dragon’s in the dungeon,” I’d say, as code to my sister or brothers that he was home.

If I walked through his office and into the laundry area of The Dungeon, sometimes I wouldn’t even know he was there. I would get so lost in my imagination as a child that while my mother begged me to eat my meat and hurry for school, he begged me to “Pay attention! Look around! See what’s happening around you!”

“HELLO!” he’d shout from his desk.

“AAAAHHH!” I’d scream, and jump from my lithe teenage body like a Halloween cat narrowly escaping a satanic ritual.

“How do you not know I’m here? Why do we do this every time? This is my office, is it not?”

“Yes, sorry. I don’t know.” I’d laugh nervously and try to push the basket through the narrow entryway.

“Why do you startle so easily? What’s wrong with you?” he’d ask, while I’d shut the door between us, and hope he didn’t follow me in.

Turns out, I had PTSD when I moved out of my parent’s home. Like, literally. The same shit Vietnam Veterans and prisoners of war and abused wives and yadda yadda yadda get. I had that. Or so my shrink said. The nightmares that my father was chasing me with a gun, the stomach aches that lasted all day and were both an aperitif and the dessert parfait to a meal. The fact that I got startled about five to ten times a day. The intense dreams, oversleeping, under sleeping, binge eating, overexercising, drugs, abusive relationships. This was the never ending cycle of my years from eighteen to about twenty-eight. Suddenly, I stopped having to eat papaya after every meal, because I gave up Tums when I went organic.

We were parked in front of a building on Newcastle Avenue. A bucolic tree-lined cul-de-sac that bragged rows and rows of ritzy apartments that were hopefully in my price-range.

“If I go in with you, they’re going to think I’m paying your rent. If you go alone, you might be able to negotiate a lower monthly rate,” my father advises.

He’s turned around in his seat. I’m listening, but as usual, amped like a Ferrari at a stoplight, innards purring, just in case I have to dodge something. My heart is beating fast and everything scares me. Including talking to this rent lady that will surely be strange and mean and ask lots of questions like adults always do and sometimes I tell the truth and sometimes I tell somebody else’s truth.  His eyes are icy, and I watch his hands to make sure they aren’t going to accidentally smite my face when he makes a point.

“Go in with her David, Jesus. She doesn’t know what she’s doing,” my mother says.

He shoots her a dirty look. We all get out of the car and buzz the manager. She’s an older lady, gray-haired, about 76. She speaks with a Long Island accent and walks around with a long curly rubber cord dangling to the side of her Bermuda shorts and flip-flops. We pass a forty-something Latino professional barbecuing asparagus at the public grill. He smiles as he removes his tie.

“Hi Ricardo,” she says. The ‘a’ sounds like Matt Damon’s character in Good Will Hunting  telling his girlfriend, Minnie Driver’s character, that he doesn’t love her.

My favorite scene was that one. Where she cries and begs the bad boy to stay with her and he hijacks her heart and, too scared to give in, leaves. But, his last glance tells her it’s only pride and that he’ll be back… She’s crushed, but she’ll survive. Because she’s in college, and because Matisse’s The Dance hangs above her bed. Another favorite of mine.

Mickey, the landlady, leads us up the cobblestone stairs. I hear the familiar creak of my mom’s “dancer’s knees” as we make our way to apartment 15. Upper unit, new linoleum in the kitchen and bathroom…

“Refrigerator comes with the unit, gas stove, lots of cabinets and storage, an extra hall closet to make up for no walk-in in the master bedroom, fully furnished, paid utilities, and eat-in kitchen. Nice, quiet building, mainly seniors, a few professionals, a small gym, pool, grill, and the neighbor next door is senile and delusional. Five sixty a month,” Mickey spouts like a veteran announcer at a veal auction.

“Can you help at all with the price?” I ask, my voice just audible.

She freezes. Looks to my mom and dad. “Are you helping with the rent?” she asks my father, who is dumbfounded.

“No, no, I wish, but no.”

“I can knock five dollars off the rent. Five fifty-five a month.” She says, and lifts her curly cord of keys.

They remind me of my own endeared-to chain when I assistant managed a candle store in the mall at thirteen. I like her. And I like this apartment. And, given I have no car, I can take the bus to work. What I can’t take is driving around with my father and mother another day looking at apartments in the sweltering heat, listening to their sentiments laced with lust and malice both. I count the paces from work to Sherman Oaks’s Tower Records. Close enough.

“I’ll take it,” I say. Without consulting anybody.

“It’s not for sale,” Mickey guffaws, “you know that, right?”

I let a low-level noise rumble in my throat. I walk out the front door, down the stairs, out the security door, and stand on the sidewalk to get some air and gaze into the moon. Trying to suss out the Man or the animal or the eye or the upside down orange wedge.

I jog to a pay phone and call my then-girlfriend at the dirty video store where she works as a cashier.

“I found a place. It’s in Encino.”

——

Need a writer for your scripted project, magazine, website, memoir? Contact me.

Share on LinkedInSubmit to StumbleUponhttp://darrahdejour.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/CRI_147112-150x150.jpgDigg ThisSubmit to redditShare on TumblrShare on MyspaceShare via email

Angles, a poem

honey

Angles and verbs
nouns and now
what’s left to describe with words
the here and her and how
Left unattended I may please myself
though cramping and flowing
floating up to find the sky
is still the bravest place

Take me up there baby
can you do that for me?
make me find my legs
around you
pushing and pulling
your fingers inside me
that’s where I want you
inside me

Find that angle where angels
and dogs and gods
see your eyes
I too see your eyes
mysterious eluding see
i see what you’re getting at
just sleek enough to find that angle
where you fit into my heart
and can’t move enough to get out

Take me into yours
in that place to dwell
between your horizon and your dreams
if you’d just talk in your sleep
I’d know exactly how you feel
guessing one day I’ll know everything
your angles and verbs
those things that can’t be described
with words

Share on LinkedInSubmit to StumbleUponhttp://darrahdejour.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/531150_10151321867673487_737595172_n-150x150.jpgDigg ThisSubmit to redditShare on TumblrShare on MyspaceShare via email

morning song.

394756_10151302786728154_873906103_n

beauty rises from the ashes/we all start somewhere/with your lips pressed to mine/soft, delicate rose petal lips/a woman’s mouth/open and fragrant/long silky tongue jetting in and out/whispering sweet nothings as you find your way down/and i press against you – petals lifting up – careening out from the pressure/and my body finds its shape/amid your shape/curvaceous and long/a stem ripe with consequence/fingertips sad from the loss of your thorns/and then they appear/a bee sting survivor/i weep into an hourglass/filling the vase with wishes you will reappear/rising from the flames/your courtship with danger and entropy winning again/and my rose becomes a vibrant, vile bird/a mythical creature of the night/glowing against a round, fecund moon/the very essence of woman herself/and there you go again/morphing into something unrecognizable/but myloveforyou remains the same/ever the same/my beautiful woman/ever the same.

if for once, my constance can revel in temptation, smashing hips against circumstance/righteous and strong/i’ve always had these hips/and i will always love you. music is my drug when you are gone/and the silences between the notes stretch to offer company until you arrive again/with your bag swinging along your thin waist/begging me to touch the sour spots others passed over/on their way to the sweetness/like juice of the immortal/but all things sweet will one day grow hard/like sap on the vine stretching long to encumber the source/i will rise toward you like a sunflower begs for the nourishing rays/and you will give me what i need/there is no scarcity in remembering

whence you feel my thorns, too/tho’ they bow with fragility to your masterful glance/one of those?/my heart sings again.

beauty rises from the ashes. you, my love, make me dance along the crest of the roaring blue flames, orange licking my underbelly like a morning song.

Please subscribe to Suicide Redhead blog by entering your email addy in the box on the right “Subscribe via Email” —>

Share on LinkedInSubmit to StumbleUponhttp://darrahdejour.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/08/394756_10151302786728154_873906103_n-150x150.jpgDigg ThisSubmit to redditShare on TumblrShare on MyspaceShare via email

We Weren’t Meant To Be, We Just happened

tumblr_m5npz6YQO01qz9qooo1_1280

Name the natural disaster these writings were based on…

Watch the sun flicker, playing hide and seek between the window coverings, slim and long like a droopy eye. Like honey slipping from from your tongue into my own cavernous home for your saliva. For your spit. To slip between my teeth, teeth you lick, teeth you suck and squeeze between your thumb and first finger. Between your fingers my come sticks to the nails, like amber sap – less a flaw, less a gnawing underground anxiety that agonizes, begs, flickers, dilates and crawls, to get you. To have you. To own you. To claim you. To eat you. To master you. To understand you. Bodhisatva. I need help. H.E.L.P. and you are my doctor, my nurse, my scalpel and my horse. Ride me, thrill me, take me to the tip of the moon and bend me over its crests and curves. Punish me, steal me from the world as it knows me. Tear me down like an old building where they worship newness. Where they curse creases and stretch faces and leak secrets. Rebuild me. Into your fantasy. Bridge together what is with what was and what never was. We weren’t meant to be – we just happened. And, now what? Now what?

Share on LinkedInSubmit to StumbleUponhttp://darrahdejour.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/tumblr_m5npz6YQO01qz9qooo1_1280-150x150.jpgDigg ThisSubmit to redditShare on TumblrShare on MyspaceShare via email

976-BABE

baracci

i was so happy once
the world was a box of Swedish Fish
and you grabbed for one and that one became two
and now i can’t find the source of pleasure
if my life depended on it

i can’t find the button on the remote
that will shut you off.

and my only hope is hope
which is ethereal and invisible
as a drug
for which i am banned to take

pawing at reprieve you
ask again:
what am I worth to you?

Photo Cred: Candice Holdorf

Share on LinkedInSubmit to StumbleUponhttp://darrahdejour.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/378552_10150449500134384_768452118_n-150x150.jpgDigg ThisSubmit to redditShare on TumblrShare on MyspaceShare via email

Bait talks.

v10

Found this poem, I wrote, about a guy I dated oh so briefly who lived in L.A. for less than two years, and on the tail end of his voyage, found me and tried to court me. Felt as fun as jury duty… Badumbum.

he dates to fuck, and me?

I found a story in between everypiece of lint

in his pocket, and a chasm that I fit into there.

where his throbbing gristle hit the bed frame, and the flesh hiding

in between folds of every other girl who swam

to her demise, losing more of her innocence

in his sullen eyes; easy lies;

finding home looks nothing like a pair of ruby shoes

he shouts at me to give him something more of myself!

why?  What’s the matter with never?

we never say it and yet there it is blue as a desecrated heart

who whispers creeping silences – a scale against a feathered horse

that mounds forever in its clever foretelling of gaiman’s sandman

snail tales.

it’s never coming – this love I seek and yet they tell me it’s all in me.

she’s obsessed again, like a toilet overflowing.

I have to answer the phone in dial tone.

maybe or maybe or maybe, she’ll know?

 

he dates to fuck.

so close to home.

lie like I want to go there

I guess I believed him when he said

he would be better than a rolling stone

better than his dad was to him

and better than my dad was to me.

but it was a farce, like Godot and still

I wait.

wait.

wait.

wait.

waiting.

Share on LinkedInSubmit to StumbleUponhttp://darrahdejour.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/v10-150x150.jpgDigg ThisSubmit to redditShare on TumblrShare on MyspaceShare via email

anais spit

anaisnin

i’ve never felt anything quite so strongly
as when I laid my eyes on you
and like children tugging at my shirt,
screaming mommy! mommy! i pushed down
the truth
i knew you were scared – is scared even a substantial enough
word for what you were?
frightened
not enough
petrified – yes, now we’re getting somewhere.
you were

mortified to express yourself
to me.
that I might judge the very nature for which
i have come to adore you!
that I might revel in embarrassing your appetites
your virtues
your grievances
your ability to muffle your reality
in favor of making me happy
and disappearing into my happiness.

i wanted to be your
anaiis nin
but without all the pain
and anguish and difficulties
of anyone that’s come before us.
and little did i know the home you had
built before us.
the life you were living
when i wasn’t around.
and the man you were to the femme
in residence.
who came before me.

i swallowed my: pride
i swallowed your sins
i swallowed your skin
i gargled your nothingness
to multiply it
until
my mouth
was full of your righteous lying stubborn beautiful
sacred dna
then i spit.

Share on LinkedInSubmit to StumbleUponhttp://darrahdejour.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/7190-150x150.jpgDigg ThisSubmit to redditShare on TumblrShare on MyspaceShare via email