Poetry: Infernal Fire by Andrea Lambert (t/w)

Infernal Fire

When the only life you know
Is broken.
Picture perfect
Manicured hedges
On the outside.

Nude madwoman
Whittled to bone hooks
Running rampant
Inside.

Driven to spew bile
On the page.
Driven by
An internal,
Infernal
Fire.

Slathered with coconut oil.
Performing Latin rituals
With my own bodily fluids
To ancient pagan Gods.
To little or no effect.

I silently scream
Outward
Online
To an indifferent world.

Take my meds
Three times a day,
Keeps the men
In white coats away.

Stay inside
Sober.
Celibate.
Like a good woman should.
So I have heard.
The scarlet letter is A.

From coke whore
To literary lesbian
To eccentric recluse.

I traded in frolics
For respectability.

Received
The dregs
Of coffee grounds
And cat shit.

So indoors.
Alone.
Craft dreams
Implausible
Of immortality.

Guardian ghosts,
Illusory,
We ride at dawn
Into the abyss.

Bio: Andrea Lambert is a queer writer, artist and filmmaker with Schizoaffective Disorder. She lives in Nevada with her four cats. Site: andreaklambert.com

Alone in the Tower from Andrea Lambert

Andrea Lambert is a queer writer, artist and filmmaker with Schizoaffective Disorder. She lives in Nevada with her four cats. Site: andreaklambert.com

Alone in the Tower

        I live in a castle in the sky. The House of the Rising Sun. No men are serviced here. I only live out my days alone. In an ivory tower. My moon-colored bob too short, to let down. 

	I am not interested in men. Only a woman. Who is dead. I still wear her wedding ring. Diamonds on my hand. I am alone in grief.

	Once we ate strawberries. Wasabi peas mixed with kisses. She. My domestic partner. My wife. Taken too young at twenty-seven. By her own hand. She took all of my psych meds. Left me alone. It is no wonder I am poisoned. For further love. My heart shattered.

	That is what comes after being widowed, correct? I wait to die. Between these walls. Like a queer Miss Havisham. When’s the special day? Death is always a surprise. I will wait.

	When my ghost wife comes. In her black Louis Verdad wedding gown. Black veiled hat. To carry me away. I shall go willingly. Peacefully. For only then will I be free. Of this worm like meat tube. I must feed and toilet. All for naught. I attend to the needs of the body. Because I must go on. 

	I am too cowardly to hasten to process. Of waiting. For death. I lie in stasis. In wait. In this locked tower. No air comes in. Only bursts of electricity. Flaming sparks. Will explode.

Don’t Fear the Witch by Andrea Lambert

Don’t Fear the Witch

            I do not fear a witch will come knocking at my door. With a poison apple treat. For I am the witch. With evil eye charm. Hidden on my porch. Shun that house in old Reno. Called the House of the Rising Sun. As the old song goes. For I am shunned. Alone. Both by choice and circumstance.

            Everyone in Nevada is carrying a gun. So I hear. I cannot mix with the populace. I am sorry. This world? This gun-happy silver state? Is not safe for me. I don’t want to die. Not yet. To know my phases of misery, psychosis and manic joy? One would to seek to end the cycle. I fear. As a public service. To the taxpayer. For I cannot keep it light. Think positive. At the slightest provocation; the biggest little panic attack.

            I practice witchcraft. Alone. In a room in my house. Inside sacred geometry lines. Of rose quartz. Broken jewelry. Tarot cards. Is magic real? Will. Salt. Stones. Baby tooth of my childhood mouth. Nail clippings. Candles carved with runes. Menstrual blood of my barren womb. Sometimes spells work. Or don’t. I have only been six years at the craft. I know not how many more years. It will take. To master the impossible.

            Morbid play, or is it the way? I prevaricate. Between doubt and devout. I know naught.

            Writing. Art. Witchcraft. Exercises in futility. Against the inevitable. Death.

            The only poison apple is in my heart. I barricade it. To wait. For the one I once loved and lost.

Andrea Lambert is a queer writer, artist and filmmaker with Schizoaffective Disorder. She lives in Nevada with her four cats. Site: andreaklambert.com

Poetry by Andrea Lambert : A Waiting Lament

A Waiting Lament

I haven’t slept in days
To stay accessible.
Agreeable.
Dressed in normal clothes.
Ready to answer the door.
Unlock things as needed.
Cooperate.

Not conjuring Hecate and Dionysus
In a circle of crystals and cards.
Or in a medicated sleep
of death
For twenty hours.
Or exorcist crab-walking
Drenched in coconut oil
To touch each door of the house
With my bare foot.

I am not a real person with real problems.
I am an emaciated glamour phantasm.
Reclusive enough to be imaginary.
With hair the color of the moon.
I live scarcely tolerated
At the fringes of society.
I don’t matter.
I am hardly even real.
I am hardly even alive.  


Andrea Lambert is a queer writer, artist and filmmaker with Schizoaffective Disorder. She lives in Nevada with her four cats. Site: andreaklambert.com

Border Crossing by Andrea Lambert 

Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Andrea Lambert

Border Crossing by Andrea Lambert

Border Crossing

I was born in Los Angeles.

November 2018. The sky is white. My skin is brown. The air dips below freezing at night. I carry my passport and birth certificate in my purse. In case I must prove citizenship. There are checkpoints all over Reno. Those who cannot show the right paperwork in time? Caged.

The only stamp on my passport is a honeymoon in Tulum. 

2005. Despite immaculate paperwork, a Border Guard in Tijuana refuses my return crossing to the United States. With my parents. After attending my father’s friend’s baby shower. In a black velvet floral party dress. Red lipstick. Heels. California summer tan. 

The Guard thinks I am a Mexican prostitute this swinging baby boomer couple picked up for a threesome. Preferring poly fun in their own waterbed stateside. Counterfeit passport for the whore. Fear eclipses multiple levels of ick in lizard brain.

I speak very fast. In unaccented English. Give exact dates and locations for my birth and education. My words spill like water. 

I am a woman of ambiguous heritage. Mixed race. Whether I’m white depends on who you’re talking to.

My words mean nothing to the Border Guard. He does not believe that this plump pink man could possibly be my father. Believes him to be simply a John. 
	
The Guard asks me my father’s birth date. I understand how tenuous my position to white America in stark blazing lights.

“January,” I say. So I can go home. 
Land of the free, my ass.


Fevers of the Mind Quick-9 Interview with Andrea Lambert

Andrea Lambert is a queer writer, artist and filmmaker with Schizoaffective Disorder. She lives in Nevada with her four cats. Site: andreaklambert.com

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