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Johnny Noir

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Member Since: Jun, 2008

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Sara’s Mystery
by Johnny Noir

Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Not rated by the Author.
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Recent poems by Johnny Noir
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Dedicated to Sara Teasdale

Charlemagne invented champagne for Sara— 
On a moonless night in Istanbul wandering drunk through the park 
Charlie found the dead body of a girl 
And fell in love on the spot—
Stumbling through the dark searching for a wizard but found a wife 
Instead by pulling his grandmother’s mask off
And revealing the yellow Tara smiling—
Lisa walked home drunk on Charlemagne’s champagne
Just like she knew she would as dawn struck—
The fireflies gather and spark 
Throughout the nights of childless love and all through the summer—
Where the girls can’t hide their love for Sara---
 
Her soul is made of bread and her heart of plastic
Which shows that she’s a modern girl, not unlike you—
Her eyes are sweet and her feet smell like her mother’s,
Given to vivid visions of red things and logomania,
She can explain most everything, taking a nap in the Higgs field 
As if it were a hammock in the sun 
While her mother is happily bound hand to foot 
By a teenager in the church basement and my love grows,
Elise screaming and crying because she’s not a blonde
And her eyes are not made of gold, 
The transgender prophet saying to trust no one—
 
I wish my mother were an atheist so I could go with her to Istanbul—
And ride the whores like horses like I’ve been dreaming,
Sara won’t wait in line for the rock show, 
She wants love but I think I’ve seen enough—
What’s left to see of eternity when we round the corner
And come face to face with old king whose kingdom lays in dust,
And the queen of the unseen and unsaid speaks her mind telepathically
Like it’s the most normal thing, 
I didn’t mean to call her Jesus,
She’s perfect just the way she is. Beauty not her strong suit—
She thrives in darkness where Charlie on his knees blindly gropes 
The muddy ground in search of her bones, 
Throwing up so hard he shits himself—
 
And Sara looks skyward waiting for the Holy Roman Emperor
To emerge from his sepulcher 
So she can tell her mother she got one thing done 
But her mother doesn’t care; she’d rather be in love 
And has already sold her old soul for the privilege—
 

 

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