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Marie Lecrivain

photo (18)BIO

Marie Lecrivain is the editor-publisher of poetic diversity: the litzine of Los Angeles, a photographer, and a writer-in-residence at her apartment. Her work has appeared in various journals, including Edgar Allen Poet Journal, The Kentucky Review, Maitenant, A New Ulster, Spillway, The Los Angeles Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, and others. She’s the author of The Virtual Tablet of Irma Tre (© 2014 Edgar & Lenore’s Publishing House), Love Poems…Yes… REALLY… Love Poems (© 2013 Sybaritic Press), the forthcoming Grimm Conversations (© 2014 from Sybaritic Press) and she’s the editor of anthology Near Kin: Words and Art inspired by Octavia E. Butler (© 2014 Sybaritic Press). Her avocations include alchemy, alternate modes of transportation, H.P. Lovecraft, Vincent Price, steam punk accessories, and the letter “S.”

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7 Occurrences of Small,
But Irrefutable Failure

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the shadow of Anubis
that loomed over Mr. Carter
as he breached the left-hand corner
of Tutankhamun’s tomb

the constant ringing
of the Rachel Mussolini’s phone
from Benito’s assignations

the software engineer
at the inception of Apple
who insisted on a living wage

the omission of M.D.
after the initials
of Charles Darwin

the historical ramifications
of a long-form birth certificate

the daily consumption
of a single glass
of tap water

an unwritten poem

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In the Shadow of Gary Numan, High Priest of the X-Gens

(To my friend Sigrid, with thanks…)

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We arrive fashionably late to the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, but the residents don’t mind. The full moon glides between the dark fronds of palm trees. We walk with the black-clad X-Gens, more of whom now hold onto the rails as they ascend the stairs into the Hall of Architects. Among them, my green-and-blue venetian coat screams obscenities. We make our way to the merchandise table to purchase the obligatory offerings. I choose a CD filled with a new set of splintered psalms, and then move to the next line to procure the required amounts of spirits and water. We’re adrift in an over-heated middle-aged sea of geeks; bald domes set against faded Dead Can Dance tees, wives and girlfriends decked out in their classic goth best – it’s that kind of an occasion. I look like a soccer mom, my Doc Marten mary-janes the only correct accessory. The haze from the smoke machine camouflages our wrinkles, as well as the other natural shocks to which the human flesh is bound. The lights dim as the musicians step onto the dais. Gary appears – stage left – his wiry body and shock of Robert Smith hair a blessing, and a joy forever. We tune into a seductive string of primal growls that generates from the low end of an amp under torture. Gary contort his body in tribute to dear old Max, the elder god of goth. Our bodies begin to twitch in a series of reluctant miniscule movements. We are golems who wish to shed our status quo and pogo like we used to. I search for a mosh pit – and sadly, find none. We start to bend and sway, our semi-creaky bones now more pliant as we move through Gary’s songs and our rediscovered muscle memory. The veils fall away as we shed the weight of a score-and-a-half years. We become what we once were, the bastard generation who danced in the hinterlands of the cold war. We become our own mythology. It is here we shine darkly. Above our heads, Gary’s shamanic shadow reigns supreme, head thrown back in ecstasy, and right hand raised in triumph.
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