Self

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

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. 

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. 

Aquarium

Photo series by Gabriele Viertal

My nose is a Spanish bull

It takes about two dozen full-breaths

To growl upon the painted signs

Against windows that are not supposed to be windows,

Neither, anything else.

 

I look away.

My fever is the beat of

Two notching drumsticks.

A cracker. Outflanked. A red fish.

Do you see your heart slapped out often?

Sometimes I feel them,

These sea animals of the red waters

Trapped inside a—

Bottomless tank,

Me.

Bird House

Chirab

As if upon a manicured piano,

My fingers play upon the letters

Before I have to deliberate the symphony

That must type you out.

A half-eaten apple,

My fallen sin.

Incomplete, inside my cells

Yet a sea.

Crisp textures of sounds

That make a colourful pattern for hunting birds

Which pick at fish meat, just before

I close my eyes and see you.

Precise.

When will that be?

 

A closing ground,

Distraught by the carcass of a pretty bird.

I open.

In macabre.

A dance of pink-lipped lizards.

In the night where men disappear into other men.

Seven fold.

With crooked pretty legs.

I hunger.

You don’t see me.

 

You open me up.

You spill me out.

You seep inside my stomach.

And eat at my heart,

It is moon shaped.

Clever;

A bastard of heavy-hearted thoughts.

Will you stay?

After Chase

Selene by Mela Muller, 1910

What about the wishes that have a body of their own

Till they run under your sea-bed

Like wild hounds shooed away with the force of the hand,

Yet with the tread of fiction,

Sparks flying, what a relentless metaphor

For me to love you and name it in pitiful words

Of need

As if a nurse,

putting out dead men with the scent of her hair,

Called out for murder.

 

I put a face on you/ I fill you with my words

Lo, a mutt.

Of him, I made the sky/ of him, I made the earth.

 

A river I float,

I let him touch my eyes/ I let him droop to my waist.

 

And they made me the nun supreme of a dark little purgatory

With an uncertain hill-slope

‘Down I fell’, Alice murmured

Till I was both above and below

Lo, a mutt.

 

In the groves, Diana smiles at a shooting star

And traces it with her fingers.