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Germination

Image result for plant surreal ears
The ear by Hans Peter

Life becomes alien in my hands
a sniffle
a startled sneeze
that pursues comicality in irony,
ever so foreign in every repetition.

A tree grew out of my ears,
it was planted when I was small
and my father had opened up my skull
to look for a foul germination;
something must have fell in then
and something must have fell out,
Words leave me dissected.






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Resurgent

Dali’s Camembert watches

I had waited in an atmosphere
to resolve the memory,
so trivial in my moving about–
my placing of the cup at the edge of the sink
where it belongs everyday
and so where does in all this
stands a specter tall
of memory

It comes to me like a Macbeth phantom
in a dream,
blood coated lips
melting like a Salvador clock
till an elevator buzzes open–
time’s up
wake up,
I’ll have to tell them
it is my cold acting up again.

Every night on a surgeon’s table
I am laid open
and my past is bled out of me,
some would say,
perhaps, to make space for some future,
but I know
And I disagree
Past is a fancy little word
to make us feel
things can truly ever die
and then, stay buried.








Horizon

Image result for horizon surreal
Photo from a song named “Stereo Horizon”

There is a closing at the door
the man stops–
the foot rests under the table,
his hands reach out to the ceiling
past the moon
past the stars
past the stars above the stars,
where does the eye end,
in you or in me?

The vicious gazing,
I wish it to stop.


For your eyes only

// Happy New Year! I managed to do 51 poems on 52 weeks, although I promised a hundred, ha! But I have always believed in quality over quantity, so, there you go.//

Related image
The Eye by Rene Magritte

It is strange
to jostle the unaware memory,
sleeping like an open mouthed man
on the floral sofa,
in the white noise of his mantelpiece,
as if inflicted by a small poltergeist child
with a taste for discontinuity.

Your picture is a disturbance;
The pebbled floor that you walked on
or how you were always the taller one,
under the moon
faint with an unnoticed smell of commonality;
the jester of a small world
dressed largely,
for my imagination–
my last one remaining from the Orion belt.

And now you fall like a shooting star
as if a plant coming back to a seed,
the pages gathered
this world is closing off its eyes
and I let you go,
for the remnant are only eye lashes,
perhaps to dream a little more.







About a dream


51/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image

Once in a blue moon,
when the wind shuffles in the night
and the bat sits above a cat’s crossed tail,
I’ll fall in luck
I’ll fall in a beautiful tale.

[What a pity that I do not remember it;
Just a crooked picture for you,
only twice removed.]

Soft fingers
beautiful red curls on a man
a staircase leading to a souvenir shop
a sunset smile that reaches the eyes
(that could also be the color of the dream)
a freshly-painted dark door
an urgent feeling to keep this man safe
soft fingers.







The mother


50/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Art credits: https://picsart.com/mgroftedits


I wonder if
roots growing from the ground–
the mother,
relish in her own irony,
repetitions,
cycles of unabashed hubris,
that render us all in pain
and then, we are cynical
in laughter with everything that has gone by
in acknowledgement
to the mother
who took us underneath
before we could even be born
and so
we make a father out of her in revenge,
in her own clay.

Renovation


49/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Image result for house surreal

Flying Houses – Fubiz

The house that has come to be
is fiction.
They brought mortar and then mud tiles,
facing the wild growth overhead
and I sat with a little bit of my wild tamed,
it was very unlike me.

They brought paint in winters,
a deafening white,
but the city haze took over
and it became a rusted armor
that one puts on instead of sweaters,
because that is what we always do–
we fight cold with cold.

I sat in my room
but they had come in and replaced the walls,
a faint feeling of memory still lingered–
the decay and the stagnancy
which no paint can soften out.

The phone call

48/100
100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

Related image
Art: 
North Star by Dadu Shin

I guess I cannot write it–
the pain is too saturated
for the stars to become
separate,
in a constellation of a memory.

In the dark,
I held up my neck
and I listened to your alien voice
and from the haunt of the silent space,
one might imagine,
it was accidentally passing by.