100 poems/52 weeks challenge’ 2018

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Chaos by the artist, Elliana Esquivel.

Chaos of mind,
I sit with you at a chess table
and you gamble like a pirate king.

The negotiations are let out,
and it is a dance of seduction
of an exoticized Spain
where bleeding roses are championed
because they fight against the brutality of white noise.

But I have to sleep
and the mattress seduces no allegory,
for my reader who traverse these words
and so I wake,
allowing you to condense my peace,
all in the name of poetry.

Chaos of my mind,
lend me demons of an emotional excess
that may sprout into a poem
of exorcism rites.

Author Notes: This one is to refer Wordsworth, with my own finishes.


Ostrich eggs


100 poems in 52 weeks poetry challenge


Ostrich egg: Blue bird on a cherry blossom


This is not a poem
This is a moon journey
to return to a CPU heartbeat
of my rainy day poetry,
with words that I pour in your drink,
popping in your mouth like a tongue-cracker candy.

The trees move in shadows
and I am standing under a small grasshopper
over the ceiling
when I fall into me
and soften you all out.

You all,
give a caress soft against my cheek
but it came too late,
but it came too blind,
I cannot feel it
I have eaten me alive,
in ecstasy
of a wild child with her head inside a burrow.


Author Notes: This was an ode to my good old nostalgia. Also, I am referring to my ‘Little Wild child’ poem. Do check it out!

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)”



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.




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. 



Mariano Peccinetti, Mount Moon

As I must grow old 

And wilt

With the laws of gravity;

The horror is surreal

Of balding the moon off her throne

Into the sterile. 

How is that they must define us as a lack 

And in the same breath

Call the lands which could not bear the life

A null 

A void? 

So must I be

Either empty or full?

I wish I was easy as the glass. 




Plate 16. The First Book of Urizen. William Blake

There is a death star

Dramatic in its capital transition

Which rises above my head

Eating my dreams

Of absurd

For the normality of traffic jams

And toothpaste advertisements


Imagine if all your favourite poetry

Were to be turned into

A brute of straightjacketed

jaw-aching ‘normal’

sound of the second-hand;

Time without seasons

and sleep without dreams.


Of smothering of the consciousness

In the sweaty palms of

Fabric conditioners and slime coloured detergents

That surely leave no stain

And are optimum for steel utensils.