Sadness

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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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. 

Set of words 

Let me read you
 the opposite of poetry.

I pull out a letter knife 
And toy with red-lettered words
Till I no longer have a thirst for the apple juice
Or the Antarctic sky.

Whatever comes up
The blood or blues
I gulp it down with white wine
Until my feet are cold, enough for sleep,
I dream 

And then I weep in poetry. 

Northern Winds

Jakub Schikaneder’s Snow (Twilight in Winter) 1899

Then

happened a soft autumn day

where I let my untamed foot fall

off the silk edge of my ordinary bed,

to let it fight with the tarnished wooden door

hunch-backed by a snoring inverter

when past the dust-coughing jail-skins,

there came a ruffle from the

dark of tall surmounting trees

necromanced

nodding outside,

breathing on my ankles,

in all oddity of the oncoming winter.

 

Then I had dug under the culture’s paws

Asked them, of what of the Winter gloom—

That gentleman

So languid upon my prickling skin,

In me,

He had protected life.

 

 

Now

There rests a diabolical caress

Of sandpaper bed-sheets

Till my feet are sore

From the coaling livers of the winter-verse.

Oh, to look for light switches in the dreadful dead-dark,

Paranoid chants that the curtains must not move—

All my sacred pathos intruded

Into the

Red demonstration of corpse-like darkness.

 

Do the old—as the Laker Poet once cried—must only lament what can no longer be felt?

 

Again

In my heart, I invite

The night

I had shut down my famished words

Again, a prayer

To be fertilized with meaning, I ink

I conjure up my sprite:

In the hearth of a breathing cold

The tepid haunt of a sea nymph

Misplaced

Upon one changing breeze of the earth

Colluding with mist,

Into a body of unknown

That I uncloak, even though I am dressed

In great perspiration

I try

Once again

to reclaim the night.

 

Author Notes

I had an epiphany just now. I actually had a dream about different models of ceiling fans today–funny that I must write a poem dictated by the winds.

‘Something watches and stirs in the dark, it is alive.’

Sphinx’s tale of evenings 


On a bench sodden with invasion of ice

Back from the evening street’s burlesque gait, 

I step-step with a dog 

and my cup of tea drools upon the air, 

smoking light whiskers of cinnamon in its ascent. 



People like to nibble upon beautiful things, 

they munch upon red rice-cakes that drop down after sunset,

To sediment in their drunk eyes 



What is it about the evenings that conjure up bar inns in vicinity? 

Like a sleight of hand , 

the man,

 digs deep in his shoes

 and begins to grow upon a pubescent liquor counter.

 Lights begin to take his youth over

Ultra blues that dissolve the lemon pinks 

into a downward spiral of vomiting

Need a girl to hold your midnight hair

 Around the damp floral patterns of the old man’s least cliche bedroom 

‘How beautiful’ 

Is death. 



The ice cuts my tongue.

 So does tea.

 
The dog-eared evening is licked close. 

Morning Rituals

I swallowed a dragon’s tail

And then went out to order my morning latte.

The winter was worn out

But my trees were young still,

Fawning in the dilating dew,

Oh-so-subtly knocking upon the loud-mouthed lamppost

 

Every morning when I purse my lips

A sigh exuberant, closes the grounds

I cease my trying

I become the rhythmic sound of motor vehicles,

Death-threats

And amateur poetry

Oh-so-dramatic

Nothing like them, twisting a sound against your neck

Try Try

The sorrow fails.

It is an escaping earthen refuse

A rasping sound–out  into a glittery blank space

 

The mushrooms begin to sprout below the ground

An alternate suppression

Of a Legion

Robed in a grey fur blanket

Of a weather

That hangs without a house-clock or a center.

 

Someone babbles on the radio, ‘Mayday’

I laugh and sip my coffee.

 

Image credits: http://www.brettgrunig.com/2013/06/22/6-22-2013/

Extinction

image

I feel so reckless
To touch
That that have been sleeping
Eye-open
Drag it out
Wide-open
Ticking-bleeding finger tips
Oogling at the space
Full of wailing
whales tumbling down my throat,
And so I lid my eyes
And I can no longer reach
The pain I may have described
Yesterday.