poem

Moon

Fire launched

inside a capsule that was laid underground

where when potato seeds grew

in rain–

there was one

life

and it’s time-trodden objects;

poet’s words.

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On the Eve

Image result for snake mouth art

Must I announce
in bleak pages,
what the resting man in his pocket-grave,
once told me–
of a fool
who falls in love
and calls it liberty

He told me of closed hearts
condensing into closed spaces
where minds trebled
and the melody,
siren-ed like a police car
passing away in the damp of
a night turned pale with cold.

I looked back at him
like a fish betrayed with dust
and thought of philosophies
of eununch-ed-heartbreaks,
sparrowed with words.

But a book grasps upon my throat now
for I have known what I had rejected–
the tyranny of my blood-forged hierarchies,
borne of those girls wrapped in timber,
smoked from the fog of waiting
–past the clock–
for the kettle of war to go off
and a return home
towards welcoming back the enslavement,
for the fullness in the braids
to rubber-hold

Then, I ricochet,
twist and turn under the sheets
in a boomerang
I return to what I have outgrown
and what’s more,
to see it while I do that.

I think of a snake,
it’s opening jaws,
I think of an unravelling,
it’s anarchic arched back,
I think of giving away to myself,
whenever there is a war
for the love can be full
when it is moon.

The Room

See the source image

My life lays scattered on my bed,
the objects, the body parts,
a hand paired with a bow
a foot strangling the leg of the bed
a hollow-eyed German doll
a bastard-colored coffee mug
a pillow of some delicate virgin
the aged ash in a steel bowl
a floral rice cooker
a snooping miniature of a black cat–

In disbelief,
I (real)ize
into things.

Flu

Image result for white flower surrealist
Photo by Sayaka Maruyama

There has been a dousing
of all the tumult
that blows our way
for all our castles overhead,
we submerged a little bit
and slept without sorrow with the may flower–
without sorrow,
O without sorrow.

Without sorrow
we were home in our chests
and the wind began to feel like water,
for this is strange;
the mind sleeps
when the body fights.

August

Image result for mist surreal
Photo by Nick Steinberg

The rowing of the boat,
the wading
through the sounds
in the river of August
when the light percolates with the color of a soft green
as if the trees have come
to lay dead in the water
and there are sounds of night in the afternoon–
the poet’s broth–
is it then life that is at its mud-bed?
heavy and fertile
with sinking

Chink in time

Image result for stage surreal

Notice how
whenever they switch on the mic
and arrest it upon an empty stage,
the absence becomes a vapor
and there remains a small ghost of the
white noise;
the tip of a tongue
for an orator to fall out.

And in turn,
then his tip of tongue
the bow-drawn
the breath before diving
will fall with a break
and release the vociferous of
copper plates, drum sticks
the china of various polished teeth,
ladies with popcorn gait
circus balls, faux fur
blood-thirst, a podium,
the eye of the needle.

the eye of the needle,
the eye of the keyhole,
there is no orator
there is no visitor at the door.







Song for one more sleep


Image result for insect surrealism morning
Monday Morning by Nikolina Petolas

There was a whistling
right after the morning fell off it’s egg shelf
and broke in the tundra of
life-leaking toothbrush basin,
like some rabid dog
tearing nail for tooth

My hands with some old mosquito blood
caught a hold of this insect
and placed it upon the bicycle of
a man selling sofa and cushion covers;
as a result,
it dilapidated
it coughed–
ousting the vigor of the southern spring
and other marooned extravagances like
political declarations, love-promises,
essence.

In a small monotone
my morning paddles with this man,
dragged into the sullen of the afternoon,
laid with the song of a distant Koel bird,
It is now
put to rest,
put to sweet-sweet sleep.