Emotions

A pinch of stars

The words called me

I rinsed them with the left-over repression

And wondered if the sneeze she let out

Was a symphony of sympathy

For me?

 

I said god bless you

For he had ruined me

When I thought my heart, my love

Was made tender through a suspicion of affection.

 

‘Suspicion of affection’ are ghosts

That make you believe in unnatural things like:

Mother who loves her child

Father who sings lullabies

And a dire Jupiter pregnant with life.

 

Things turn upon themselves

And worlds are all upside down.

I fetishise one smile then,

When its tongue is smothered by suspicion of affection,

I let him caress me, indifferently,

If only to let the warmth out.

 

Picture credits: Laura Makabresku : “self-portrait with my dear Husband (Kraków, 2015)”

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Gardening 


How do I find time?

I left it under the potted plant

Where my neighbor bends upon to smell a flower

And asks me about the full moon. 

He says 

There is glory in the gardens of the others

But here, the slugs ate away all the bloom

And made it seven words shorter

From a love poem

You were willing to write. 

I fight the winds

And grasp his hand

I tell him, I am a gardener of words

–Often other than the unkempt personal pronouns–

I collate 

A bag of off-shoots

Till they look like they have eaten time 

Over which my neighbor once bent upon, sorry,

Right before I unmade him

And went to sleep. 

Image source: hiveminer

Law of attraction 


Of a neon glow

Traveling throug a space-tunneled gullet

Into a bloated starry sky

Where to each eye

Her own reality.
Billions of stars looking down from the sky.

Billions of eyes looking up to the sky.

 

Because she is never stationary

And always moving about like Van Gogh’s winds

Whenever I stretch out my finger into the cold dark night

She stretches in a great cosmic yawn

To caress my arms

Until we melt in our atomic marriage

Of neither star

Nor human.

 

Groundwork 


There is benign strength 

In my poet’s legs

To keep my words

From falling off in a dishonest dance routine

Noted among people

Who even served worms 

in gourmet,

With candlelight.                               

                              

      
I pity 

the words stuck like phlegm 

in their throats

Dying in the purpose of throne-making 

for a self in state of decline,

Reciprocal to

Each bite in the name of ‘taste’.         

              
                
Then in death

There is always a radioactivity. 

The charged words bump against the glass

Like a moth or a housefly

Like a lover or a businessman 

And at last

The mind breaks with its own ambition. 

The Imposter Syndrome

The Equation of Desire. Martin Soto Climent. Mousse Publishing.

He would always sit ahead of us

In his citric orange T-shirt

Sultry

Against the abandoned air-conditioned classrooms

Made by the Japanese and

Maintained by the miniature birds,

Who often get trapped in lecture-hall limbos.

 

I cannot write him

He’s a plant that does not germinate

Into wishful thinking

Of infatuated hearts, struck by poverty

Of lack.

A lack that begins to define you,

Your illegitimate parent.

 

But here’s a trick, 

Chance a find

you have to look.

Glance upon his quivery brow

Or

the rickety case of criss-crossed legs

That dares to announce

—If just for a second—

The same lack as you

And your

Out-of-the-league desires. 

Fireside

Image result

There isn’t a letter on my keyboard

That will have you

Smarten up your collars, sleep with a chord of food

And set you off to your

Island of mercy.

 

I know

There glasses full of chuckling ice,

A home-made monster,

To whom your blankets

Reproach and yet still shiver

With all the cold,

Behold,

They said, build up some walls

But what of those

Towering inside,

Lying frigid

Against the storm that is your kin

You fall, all of all

Your scratching nails will

One day give in.

 

Stand on one leg from now on,

Islands are no places for hot-blooded men

We flux, We cry

But, just have a spirit to begin.

 

Photo credits: http://www.joelcartier.com/photography/fashion#

No man’s land

 

I sat under the tree
I dripped of words, bled myself dry
Nothing came close
Nothing came to pry

Two eyes, seven hearts
Hands to hold 
No more skin to give
They asked me, 'O goddess under the tree
Where is thy lord? Where is thy almighty?
Mine stands here, Mine loves me.
Where is this tree? Where is this tree?'

My skin chaffed to my bones
I wear my silken night oak
White strands 
Blue strands
I said to her, 
look ye to the sky
No star am I
When the night closes in,
I slip under my own kin
I am my home
I am my own skin

This lord you seek,
has have had a
gloomy goddess 
Neither above, neither below
but within him
within him

But I stand here alone,
Fully indulged. 



Lone Poets

 

A silver nerve throbs above my eyelids
It says snap
And I see you,
warm
immaterial
slurring past a cherry tree

As the afternoon sun gazes upon your lips
I kiss my cello
And tell him to calm my daydream,
Let it yodel down a mountain rivulet

But as the afternoon sun gazes upon your eyes
unheimlich
becomes
heimlich

And I confess,
I have seen the world
within a desert

without a single oasis
“What a wonderful phenomenon it is, carefully considered, when the human eye, that jewel of organic structures, concentrates its moist brilliance on another human creature!”
― Thomas Mann