Dream Crush, etc.
By
Carmen Baca
Dream Crush
He lived in my imagination long before I found him in real life.
This image I carried like a vivid photo in a pocket of my mind,
I never really thought we’d meet, but I searched anyway.
When we crossed paths serendipitously or maybe by design,
my heart sped up, and I did more than one double-take.
He caught me on the third, I think. Just broke into a grin,
lop-sided but toothy, a thing of beauty that matched his eyes.
Mischief-maker, one of those bad boys we’re told to avoid.
Drawn into his orbit, I went willingly. The aunts teamed up
to break his spell, convinced he’d bewitched me somehow.
Of course, nothing worked, and that proved he was a demon,
they said. I scoffed and followed him everywhere. He became
the air I breathed. Far from him, I suffocated or thought I did.
Seeing him gave me joy; hearing his voice gave me music.
Feeling his touch made my heart flutter; touching him, I died.
Or went to heaven in his embrace. Our love didn’t last long.
“Stalker,” he accused, “quit following me.” He didn’t mean it.
The restraining order didn’t matter. Neither did the girl. “Fiancé,”
he yelled and shoved me into a newly dug hole far from home.
Coffins don’t run out of air as fast as I imagined they would.
Stupid sap. The aunts found me, the psychic one led the way.
The others led the outcry of murder as we fled into the night.
No one cared. Who was I, anyway? Not one of my crushes
loved me back. They vanished right after the law stepped in.
I suspected the aunts. Yet, if not for them, I’d have died
for love unrequited again. Desperate determination drove
me to try for one last crush; the aunts had other plans.
Cloistered me in their attic. “Madness took hold,” they said.
They don’t know I get to love all the crushes I once had.
The ones that come through the walls just to love me back.
Tableau
The tableau remained incomplete.
So I pulled the black from your soul
and dabbed some here and there.
It needed a vibrant contrast though,
so I siphoned blood from your vein,
a brush stroke here, another there
to give the painting life as you lay dying.
Yet, the tableau remained incomplete.
I took the lividity from your lips,
added the soft texture of your skin,
blended in the hue of your cheeks,
and stole the promise from your eyes.
Watched you take those final breaths,
and found my artwork sadly lacking.
Still, the tableau remained incomplete.
Inspiration struck with sudden satisfaction
and I plucked your sharp, shrewish tongue
by its roots to smear the shade of gore
perfect for this one-of-a-kind creation.
Aficionados praised the masterpiece,
calling it “From Death Life Rises.”
A Prince’s Bride
“You will marry,” the elderly king insisted. “An ancient decree makes it clear.”
An opulent event was planned for every young maiden from far and from near,
a masquerade ball for his only son, a prince of a man in more ways than one.
A heartthrob, a player, at times a heartbreaker feeding his ego with frivolous fun.
Celebrities and famous folk mingled with stars, athletes and personalities galore.
I and everyone else went for the spectacle, the drama, the allure of much more.
Busy bodies and gossip mongers sought instant VIP status eager to confide
the result of the bets we placed on who would become the prince’s new bride.
At midway point a regal beauty walked through the doors in Cinderella blue.
Bejeweled tiara on auburn curls, matching mask blocked the rest of our view.
Belled ball gown in shimmering hues, modest bodice over sun-kissed skin.
Audible gasps from the crowd, some agog, others aghast, followed her in.
Many a man wished to step right up and carry her off Prince Charming style,
but she only had eyes for the distinguished, dapper devil with the angelic smile
wearing black tie and gold crown, who swooped first as she stood entranced.
Sweeping off with her in a whirling, wildly frenzied and freakish dance.
We watched, spellbound, as they spun into a blue-black blur and slowly stilled.
Before all of our horrified eyes, they changed into visions that left us chilled.
We found ourselves in a true tale from the crypt, a bedtime story gone bad,
one that gave off Beetlejuice vibes, not Princess Bride. A prince turned mad,
more Dracula than Hollywood heartthrob, more nightmare than anyone’s dream.
Transformed to beast, he grew horns that toppled his crown and gave off steam.
Terrifying talons tore from his hands, and fierce fangs filled his deadly maw.
Flaming red face lifted in victorious, demonic laughter as we ran, this we all saw.
Sparks from his heels raised sulfuric fumes as he waltzed, mixed with the stench
of decomposition and decay wafting from his withered wife, now a wizened wretch.
Discarded mask revealed she was no beauty, instead ghastly, ghoulish, truly ghostly.
She cackled maniacally, content in her conquest. Half her face hung in shreds, mostly
between gristle and gore, the other side pristine, evoking pity for her current state:
reanimated corpse bride risen from the grave—until we saw her joy in her new mate.
The Prince of Darkness had found his perfect princess, fulfilled the king’s command.
We fled, fearing their dominion would prosper, and their heirs would fill the land.
Carmen Baca is the author of 7 novels and and many short works of poetry and prose in multiple genres. Among several honors, her works have won nominations to Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.
By
Carmen Baca
Dream Crush
He lived in my imagination long before I found him in real life.
This image I carried like a vivid photo in a pocket of my mind,
I never really thought we’d meet, but I searched anyway.
When we crossed paths serendipitously or maybe by design,
my heart sped up, and I did more than one double-take.
He caught me on the third, I think. Just broke into a grin,
lop-sided but toothy, a thing of beauty that matched his eyes.
Mischief-maker, one of those bad boys we’re told to avoid.
Drawn into his orbit, I went willingly. The aunts teamed up
to break his spell, convinced he’d bewitched me somehow.
Of course, nothing worked, and that proved he was a demon,
they said. I scoffed and followed him everywhere. He became
the air I breathed. Far from him, I suffocated or thought I did.
Seeing him gave me joy; hearing his voice gave me music.
Feeling his touch made my heart flutter; touching him, I died.
Or went to heaven in his embrace. Our love didn’t last long.
“Stalker,” he accused, “quit following me.” He didn’t mean it.
The restraining order didn’t matter. Neither did the girl. “Fiancé,”
he yelled and shoved me into a newly dug hole far from home.
Coffins don’t run out of air as fast as I imagined they would.
Stupid sap. The aunts found me, the psychic one led the way.
The others led the outcry of murder as we fled into the night.
No one cared. Who was I, anyway? Not one of my crushes
loved me back. They vanished right after the law stepped in.
I suspected the aunts. Yet, if not for them, I’d have died
for love unrequited again. Desperate determination drove
me to try for one last crush; the aunts had other plans.
Cloistered me in their attic. “Madness took hold,” they said.
They don’t know I get to love all the crushes I once had.
The ones that come through the walls just to love me back.
Tableau
The tableau remained incomplete.
So I pulled the black from your soul
and dabbed some here and there.
It needed a vibrant contrast though,
so I siphoned blood from your vein,
a brush stroke here, another there
to give the painting life as you lay dying.
Yet, the tableau remained incomplete.
I took the lividity from your lips,
added the soft texture of your skin,
blended in the hue of your cheeks,
and stole the promise from your eyes.
Watched you take those final breaths,
and found my artwork sadly lacking.
Still, the tableau remained incomplete.
Inspiration struck with sudden satisfaction
and I plucked your sharp, shrewish tongue
by its roots to smear the shade of gore
perfect for this one-of-a-kind creation.
Aficionados praised the masterpiece,
calling it “From Death Life Rises.”
A Prince’s Bride
“You will marry,” the elderly king insisted. “An ancient decree makes it clear.”
An opulent event was planned for every young maiden from far and from near,
a masquerade ball for his only son, a prince of a man in more ways than one.
A heartthrob, a player, at times a heartbreaker feeding his ego with frivolous fun.
Celebrities and famous folk mingled with stars, athletes and personalities galore.
I and everyone else went for the spectacle, the drama, the allure of much more.
Busy bodies and gossip mongers sought instant VIP status eager to confide
the result of the bets we placed on who would become the prince’s new bride.
At midway point a regal beauty walked through the doors in Cinderella blue.
Bejeweled tiara on auburn curls, matching mask blocked the rest of our view.
Belled ball gown in shimmering hues, modest bodice over sun-kissed skin.
Audible gasps from the crowd, some agog, others aghast, followed her in.
Many a man wished to step right up and carry her off Prince Charming style,
but she only had eyes for the distinguished, dapper devil with the angelic smile
wearing black tie and gold crown, who swooped first as she stood entranced.
Sweeping off with her in a whirling, wildly frenzied and freakish dance.
We watched, spellbound, as they spun into a blue-black blur and slowly stilled.
Before all of our horrified eyes, they changed into visions that left us chilled.
We found ourselves in a true tale from the crypt, a bedtime story gone bad,
one that gave off Beetlejuice vibes, not Princess Bride. A prince turned mad,
more Dracula than Hollywood heartthrob, more nightmare than anyone’s dream.
Transformed to beast, he grew horns that toppled his crown and gave off steam.
Terrifying talons tore from his hands, and fierce fangs filled his deadly maw.
Flaming red face lifted in victorious, demonic laughter as we ran, this we all saw.
Sparks from his heels raised sulfuric fumes as he waltzed, mixed with the stench
of decomposition and decay wafting from his withered wife, now a wizened wretch.
Discarded mask revealed she was no beauty, instead ghastly, ghoulish, truly ghostly.
She cackled maniacally, content in her conquest. Half her face hung in shreds, mostly
between gristle and gore, the other side pristine, evoking pity for her current state:
reanimated corpse bride risen from the grave—until we saw her joy in her new mate.
The Prince of Darkness had found his perfect princess, fulfilled the king’s command.
We fled, fearing their dominion would prosper, and their heirs would fill the land.
Carmen Baca is the author of 7 novels and and many short works of poetry and prose in multiple genres. Among several honors, her works have won nominations to Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.
