Tag Archives: colour

Of Feminine Odds And Endings

I swear you complete me
Pink and blue on the skyline
Don’t the demons take this time
So raise me up, never say you’ve had enough
And you know it’s love when it’s bottled up…

~*~

Spent ten days counting dandelions in a field

Like time was miserable and needed camera thrills

Painting a scene that wasn’t quite as wayward

As a night filled with stars in some cheap postcard

Distance is effervescent when I close my eyes

Lips pulled into an idyllic smile, trying to play nice

.

Waking up when the collapse is felt in earthquake faults

Visions stifled with thorazine, my art is charcoal cold

I’ll dance like it’s the apocalypse, I’ll sing loud like I mean it

Spin a tornado with the air I have left in my lungs sweet

I’m just a mess trapped in sunflower swirls and pastel dreams

Tinderbox between my teeth, aldehyde ignites my screams

.

I don’t mind that it’s mindless, I don’t make any sense

The windows show my only escape from pyrexia bleakness

I’ll cast a spell and make the golden in the sunshine die

Plucked violets intricately lacing, like delinquent butterflies

Traipse by coastlines ’til the shore is nowhere to be found

Staring at the hypnotic horizon until I cannot feel the ground

.

Heavy, heavy, heavy dahlias; transient mysteries I’ll never solve

The morning’s further past over, and the mourning’s getting old

I’m a melancholy melody, I’m a symptom of severing snowdrops

A feverish heart cured by faux rhinestones from a psychic’s shop

Contrary crazy, I only miss the rain when the weather’s at it’s best

Drown in myself, I’ll keep looking for an exit out of this baby’s breath.

~*~

I had a dream that
I drove my car off a mountain
I fell back into your baby’s breath
Wish I didn’t miss you
Kiss me like it’s the apocalypse
I fell back into your baby’s breath…

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aesthetic

I see meaning where you don’t, where you don’t
I see waves of pastel orange and yellow paintings fire
I see futures that you won’t, that you won’t
I see futures where our nights are lost to condensation…

~*~

i see a future

in your smile

and a dimple

with a bruise

eyes that light

a jar of fireflies

and could fill up

an ocean trench

that button nose

twitching quaint

and slightly red

from bad pollen

ears perk, listen

for symphonies

and hear out the

sourest of notes

lips and tongue

in soft half moon

which you never

wane to a full one

as eyebrows that

raise in quick wit

miss the eyelash

that grants a wish

with zinnia tresses

in springtime wind

you use it to hide the

blush in your cheeks

i see grey and colour

blacks and whites in

that simple mind that

wanders far too much

it’s too bad you don’t see

the same way i do, and you

only see time ticking seconds

away from your quiet beauty.

~*~

Running through the cold air
Searching for a meaning
Passed out on the concrete
Dizzy from the spinning
Wake up to the feeling
That everybody’s leaving…

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Qualms of the Divine

You took my hand and then we both started running
Both started running, there’s no place to go
Another bullet and we both started running
Both started running too; save yourself, don’t ever look back
Nowhere to go and so we both spin around in circles…

~*~

The returning memories, they hurt me

Again I’m left feeling like a total wreck

I never thought that I would ever miss

Every other reason I didn’t even expect

.

My life was a joke, but you have turned it into art

There was nothing keeping me from falling apart

But the rains withdrew to show a different painting

Of serotonin and gaslight, lighting up a cold ending

.

This is all yours to promise, and all yours to take back

My poems have turned to cinders, the ashes sift to black

But be the lapse in my rationality, be the lacuna I ache for

These memories, they haunt me, but saturate me with colour.

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dear clumsy lovely

Living in the dark makes
Our light seem cold
I distract myself awake
But in my dreams
You’re playing our song…

~*~

missus cupid, trade a penny for a cloud

i thought too much, and i thought aloud

lucid blue until i’m pink, but you are not

what i wished for, now my face feels hot

.

i’ll be the blueprint to your candy laughs

you don’t have to hesitate or even cough

i was not looking, but guess what i found

a cherub sleeping alone without a sound

.

missus cupid, have a penny for your thoughts?

you dreamed too much, and you dreamed a lot

lacklustre white until i’m dark, but you’re all that

i ever asked for, so let’s be lucky with all we’ve got.

~*~

I’ll tell my friends we made amends
Tying up loose ends; they’re not sold
But if you want it, you can have it
You can have me in full…

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Shades of Blue

If I do what I came to do
I’ll break through in shades of blue
In red and gold, the lights
Will flash and strobe
And I will finally know
This is my home…

~*~

the taciturn rain,

sometimes quiescent drizzle,

sometimes clarion storm

reminds me of turquoise memories

.

of electric glitter nail polish

shaded onto fingernails

pointing in the wrong direction

and chipping at the edges

.

of hair that looks like clouds

but coloured blueberry-slushie sky

and is iridescently sweet

like a gloom boy’s laughter

.

of sulky mp3 players

singing sempiternal distractions with

symphonies of dizzy dreamers

and skyward soul collisions

.

of apathetic faded scarves

wrapped around breeze-bitten necks

subtly referencing a beloved one

of the same jaded violin notes

.

of self-made backpack straps

a final flicker of glimpsing hope

before cosmic turns infinitely invisible

and footsteps cease giving chase

.

of cerulean paint peeling off bus seats

revealing a dull sheathe of grey slate

of wailing sirens intertwined with alarming red

of the ocean navy pen composing this poem

.

of the sky and the sea, melting horizon’s clarity

stark in mindless scratches adhering to scarred skin

the taciturn rain, so quiet, that cobalt eyes never noticed

coldness ceased falling, as blue memories caught up with me.

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the one

Only you can make all this world seem right
Only you can make the darkness bright
Only you and you alone can thrill me like you do
And fill my heart with love for only you…

~*~

how can i say

that i envy the chase

from the tip of my pencil

to your graphite gaze?

spitting my heart

onto an endless canvas

of greys and blacks,

hoping the red would stain…

but it never does.

only your floral words are

indelible on my skin

and the reverse

is just a lie i tell myself

so i could sleep a little better

every forsaken night.

the truth is far from your moon;

beyond all your pretty stars

and iridescent eternities,

it is despairingly beyond my fathoms.

but i hope, and again i hurt

for butterfly smiles

and deluding taciturn undertows

and nightmarish illusions

leaving bruises of you

on the very tip of my lost tongue

and all over my wept eyes;

a lifeless empty void

against the autumn shower

of your warm hermetic glances.

and there is no one else

to keep this rusted clockwork

ticking rhythmically to the beats

of your mindless cradle…

and that is the ultimate folly

of this ascetic destructive shale

that i tactlessly call my soul.

for a fool’s machinery,

this chemical heart is.

So indiscernible to lose itself in

such vitreous self-infliction,

and sabotaging the very blood

that my tiring arteries

now regain, thus to sustain

the very memory of your breath

in tranquil consonance…

foolish—and yet; a fool, i am.

a fool for believing that this

lie was past the dark side of the moon

and beyond my wounded stars

and lacklustre infinities…

you are despondently beyond my fathoms.

but i hope, and again, i hurt.

ma cherie, just how can i ever say

that i envy the calm reflection

from the incipience of your melody

to your coda’s revelations?

~*~

Only you can make all this change in me
For it’s true, you are my destiny
When you hold my hand
I understand the magic that you do
You’re my dream come true
My one and only you…

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I personally prefer bleach to whiskey or wine.

“And do you really trust your tongue or did you bury the taste?
And is this fantasy real, or is it all home-made?”

~*~

And they don’t know

how many times

i hated myself over

the colour of my eyes

l a c k u s t re

g l o s s e d – o v e r

d u l l e d

by a ton of medications

that i take ironically

to bring a blush into my cheeks

some shade into my flesh

and yet the pastel pink

is far too bright

like it’s drawn on with a crayon

by a colourblind child

but no matter what i take

my blood remains the same hue

diluted into a disgusting

watercolour painting

and i have to create artworks with it

every time i cough

and every time i can’t go to sleep

they all say it’s

d i s g u s t i n g

s e l f i s h

a l m o s t  i n h u m a n

and i know, believe me

i know it better than anyone else

you don’t have to tell me again

the voices in my head

do a better job of telling me

but with every decrepit strand of hair

that falls off my deforested scalp

is another count of another hour

no—another minute

that i continue to waste oxygen

in this faultless fucking world

so i knock back my codeine

and i slowly close the

flickering bathroom lights

avoiding my pale judging gaze

on the toothpaste-stained mirror

as i leave to

continue existing in

w o r t h l e s s

f u t i l e

e n d l e s s  c y c l e s

of this monochrome facsimile

drinking it all in

and hating myself again

over the colour of my eyes,

how it doesn’t have any.

i don’t want to live anymore

and yet i simply hate myself far too much

to even attempt to end my misery

and so it goes.

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The Smiling Man

And I just can’t look, it’s killing me and taking control
Jealousy, turning saints into the sea
Turning through sick lullabies, choking on your alibis
But it’s just the price I pay, destiny is calling me
Open up my eager eyes, ’cause I’m Mr. Brightside…

~*~

there’s a man with a distinctive smile

etched on his face; a sneer that was

chiseled in by a thousand contorted

facial muscles, until all the wrinkles

deepened and the fault lines became

permanent highways leading nowhere

.

but past his craggy visage; his crooked

nose, his ears that stuck out a bit, and his

eyebrows that arch high on his forehead,

only his eyes are in ever perpetual change

sometimes glinting blue, sometimes a dull

grey, sometimes electric green, sometimes

verdant brown, but never black nor white

.

and that smiling man—with the lips so thin

that one would wonder if they were drawn

on with a graphite pencil—sometimes when

time is at a standstill and the entire planet

ceases its rotation, his rugged countenance

smoothens out, his crooked nose straightens,

his ears lie flatter, his condescending brows

fall down a notch or two, and his eyes lose

their chromatic spectrum, flickering away…

and sometimes, if the universe feels truly

unlucky, they might just see him frown.

~*~

I’m coming out of my cage
And I’ve been doing just fine
Gotta gotta be down
Because I want it all
It started out with a kiss
How did it end up like this?

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Everyone’s A Critic

Oh, but mayhap I can’t always be

Delicate charcoal artwork strokes

I can also be a broken pencil lead

Crashed from furious hale evoked

Yet frankly, just who’s your canvas

To tear apart my painted landscape

Despite those noveaux starry nights

Being my only acrylic pastel escape

Oh, but mayhap I cannot always be

A louvre rendition you expect of me

Yet pray not be proud of your abstract

For such a madness might self-destruct.

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Weekend Hymns

“If you call me at all, don’t tell me that I’m ordinary, ’cause I won’t be passing you, please don’t leave…” serenades the familiar strains of a soothing voice, interlacing delicately with the quaint glassy chords of a softly-strummed guitar, and dissipating behind the skeletal mist of the hazy whorled coffee smoke. Spongy traces of a cold jelly roll melt and shiver in my tongue, leaving traces of a sweet sensation to tease these anticipating taste buds of mine. On my right side lays a Fantastic Beasts colouring book opened on a page of Newt Scamander’s luggage, abandoned coloured pencils scattered everywhere, and a half-finished unwritten postcard with vibrant pastel shades complimenting each other in mild, careful strokes; and on my left side a battered notebook overstuffed with scribbled papers and a slightly-chewed black pen, waiting patiently to bleed words into blank parchment.

Turn off these lights, call my name. Don’t talk, just drive… Another potent vocal joins in with the tranquil music, rhythmic acoustic strains and deep baritone timbre sending quiet shivers pleasantly down my spinal column. The rain has come to a cradlesong refrain, and, time being, has ceased from thrumming a metronomic pitter-patter against the fogged-up windows. I pause, place a cat bookmark on page 12 of John Steinback’s Of Mice and Men, and take another sip of my tepid milky drink and huddle further underneath my delicate blue blanket, starry night socks rubbing against the creaky bed mattress as I do so. After partaking in such a short interlude, I indulge zealously in my awaiting literature once more, losing myself against the mollifying song and letting my imagination run away and be caught between George and Lennie’s frolicsome bickering and humbler conversations.

“Red and blue and green rabbits, Lennie. Millions of ’em.” George concluded drowsily as the chapter came to a finish, synchronously alongside Jonny Craig’s flourished crescendo of And baby, honestly these teeth won’t let you go…”, and I thumbed down on the page and set down the book once again, lost in a silent reverie. This day seems to be nothing but a lucid woolgathering, and in a momentary splinter from reality, I am quite unsure which is a fact, and which is nothing more than a mere dream anymore. It left me slightly confused whether I had actually been chasing musicians through a cornfield full of bedraggled zombies in Southern California, or if my grandmother had actually been confined in the hospital after an unfortunate slip and needs three months of bed rest to recover, or whether any of those were even real, not just derogated fantasies of an inured mind in dire need of a proper rest. Perhaps I’m simply tired. I had, after all, been looking for my exuberant nephews for a good part of the afternoon. But this is a good tired, unlike the draining emptiness of a tired stress that I have been beleaguered with the entire week. And this time around, I’ll sleep not to forget the memories. Rather, I’ll sleep to remember them.

“If you call me at all, oh if you call me at all…” The mellisonant sincerity of his lilting assurances envelopes my weary and aching bones tangibly, as if the xanthous stars had personally touched down from the lavender-blotched sky and given me a synesthetic embrace from the gentle cosmos. The final coda of the song falters and fades against the distant monsoon, washing away every worry, every qualm, every cynical thought and nightmarish daydream of mine, washing me away under the horizon’s encore performance of dying sunshine and inchoate moonbeams alike. I breathe deeply and finally close my eyes, listening to the hymn of the rainy weather and halcyon weekend continue to play around me. I’ll be alright. For now, at least…I’m alright.

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