Tag Archives: metaphor

Saudade

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my source of discomfort stems from sweeter apathy,

the one that subtly shifts behind frayed sweaters and

bubbles up from under clogged drains; the kitchen sink

is stained with petrified rose petals, your disinfectant love

creeps like cold chlorine under my tongue, and your kisses

taste like taking a deep breath under a swimming pool

but i don’t know why i cough up sea salt in my lungs

and the sand gets in my eyes and my fingernails, the

irritating grit keeps me vainly scratching all throughout

the night. you don’t seem to mind, for you have the covers

wrapped tightly around your body like a quilted cocoon, and

there’s a steady rhythm humming beneath the sweaty pillows;

of oxygen, and slowing pulse, and being unable to dream

while i dream up enough nightmares for the both of us

and the noisy skeletons in our padlocked closet. nobody’s

around to witness me jumping to conclusions, just an

inch of mattress that translates to transcontinental throes

you are so impossibly distant, whilst i quietly sit in the same

chair by the jammed window for hours and let myself wander—

perhaps i might chance upon a fairy tale place where home

feels like home, and not simply another temporary kingdom to lose

your keys; and where you are no longer a strange extraordinary metaphor

but rather, just a tiring contrary cliché that i’ll be more than glad to call my own.

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Dies Irae

“And in the end, the love you take

Is equal to the love you make.”

Quite frankly, I’m a bit jealous of people who have the casual nerve to fall in and out of love all the time—as if it was simply as bothersome as changing the frayed shoelaces on their trainers on their wornout trainers, or replacing old guitar strings because their sound has long gone dead from overuse. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course, but just;

How ever do they manage it?

I also desperately vie for that graceless, apathetic minuet—for your jaded body to queue into those monotonous cycles of halfhearted flirtations and shamefaced unspeakable nights, for your eyes to linger and your skin to prickle whenever some form of a chance draws near, to have your mind so far detached from your own overbearing sentimentality that when you crave, you simply act upon it. No love letters. No second thoughts. You don’t even have to know their name. Back into a I-V ostinato, humdrum and most times repetitive, but callously familiar all the same.

Meanwhile, I could barely make sense of all these dissonant polychords before another stray minor third or suspended ninth is forcefully thrown into the chaos, stacking up with clashing sharps and muddled tritones and making a colossal mess—and all of this coming from a singular source, no less? No consideration for modes or solfeggio? The absolute heartless anarchy.

Why must I be cursed to be a cynical romantic? A rational poet? A corrupted lullaby? I have discovered where my affections fully lay and have viciously fought tooth and nail for it; but only within myself, for myself, against myself. They need not know. They need not care. They need not suffer the awful way I have, only for nothing to come into fruition at the bittersour end, mainly because my terrified demons have their lacerating claws wrapped around every struggling limb, holding me back, screaming don’t you dare!

Aha, but what if? I hear another resolute little voice at the very back of my head interject, their rather coy tone heavily slurred with infatuated chemicals and heaven knows what else kind of drugged illogicalities. Mayn’t you take an actual chance first and maybe haphazard throwing a rose to your preluded hope, before you hang up your coat in defeat and throw it at your pre-dug grave instead? What if such an unexpected act of courage takes you where you needed to be and…more perhaps? What? If?

Courage, sugarcoated tongues call it. I call it blind and utter foolishness. Yes, I know that I willingly write about fate and destiny and the skinny scarlet threads potentially intertwining our two-syllable names at the A; but beyond that, I dare not stake my chances for a temporary happily-ever-after, nor do I refer to the gathering dust on my windowsill as fairy glitter. I know fully well what is beyond my means, and my means, in turn, know better than to continuously contradict me.

My palpitating heart and tremulous breaths, however, do not. For I have tried my untrained hand at a foreign chord inversion, and now all the blood has rushed into my skull and poured out of my gaping orifices. Everything feels so exhilaratingly t h i c k . . .

Well, curse me and my one-track mind, then. And hex/jinx/potion/burn-at-the-stake combination my asinine brain with its obsessions and hyperfixations and aspirations that focus solely on overblown proportions, it finds a shiny object that it likes and, akin to a stubborn, rabid magpie, it harshly grits its beak until one or the other shatters and even then, it does. Not. Let. Go.

Sooner or later, the hardheaded magpie will starve to death.

Honestly, I would sorely like to believe in cosmic mysticism. In soulmates and “the ones” and in pure, innocent, whimsical luck. I want to believe that if I close my eyes and daydream vividly enough, some of the pieces will slowly melt and start trickling right into the infinitesimal cracks of reality, and when I gasp awake, there shall be more shades of colour beyond my imagining—like the quaintly iridescent hue of their iris—waiting patiently in front of me. To live and to dream and yet to do neither

But in the end, no matter what I choose to believe in, I am still unfortunately a victim to reality. In reality I rightfully reside, and so in its rules I must abide—no matter how demanding, or unfair, or just plain disappointing. C’est la vie. So I must do my very best to stifle my raging adoration and love in secret—otherwise, must they think me so childishly petty?

Long ago have I ceased caring for physical intimacy, anyhow. For satiating a strange hunger that was never actually within me to begin with, like a rather curious augmentation dot in a measure that has long since ended. And I personally find it much easier to think without such fantastical denouements further clouding already-confused judgment. I simply seek another life to hold out to. Another arrangement to harmonise with mine in more pleasant overtones, and create a completely new melody once unheard of. I simply seek someone to understand with.

But even that, particularly during these trying times and ages, is already far too much to ask for. Even more unfortunately so than the former. I have found mine allure and yet lost it in the same clumsy risk. It’s affected me so much that even as I write this down, I can’t help but speak in constant musical metaphors. For I love in the same concentrated frequency as I devote my life to music. In unexpected eleven by eights and stiffer four by four cadences, in novelistic sonatas that dance around in dizzying triptychs and roaring otherworldly symphonies without a conductor present to keep it at bay; music and love and [?????], so tightly intertwined together, practically stitched at the smallest seams, inseparable, infinite, molto allargando. A trifecta of syncopated synergy tethered directly to my pulse. No wonder it is absolute agony whenever I attempt to pull one away from the other.

But music, just like everyone and everything else, desperately desires resolution. Life rarely ever offers one.

So, where do I go from here? I am hopelessly stuck tapping my fingers along to a singular timbre, and since I know all too well that there is no other exact same (or even similar) intensity nor perfect pitch that will ever come close to matching this one, I chose to deafen my entire hearing instead. There shall be no more lighthearted serenading melodies or serendipitous harmonies playing in bloom after this cantabile. I have completely given up trying. I am simply far too tired of it all to even bother anymore. I just want to get over this reckless charade and move on with my life. Better to have nothing than too much, one supposes.

Ah, to be young and in love. I quite feel as though I barely even fit in one category anymore, and yet I still vicariously persist in the other; like an octogenarian layman nearly drowning in the same river many times over the course of their entire four decades of living, whilst somehow vainly hoping to catch a pretty feathered dove. Existence is admittedly rarely too dull—but it is, however, messy and pointless and full of cacophonous noises and obnoxious plot holes. That’s what makes it exciting. I’d very much rather be bored to death.

So tell me, how does one love if they do not know how to—and do not ever want to? How does one get rid of love when this exhausted cliché has nothing left to give, yet invisibly clings on to them like an unpleasant earworm just to suck them dry and make their stomach feel relentlessly sick? And how does one ridiculously fall prey to love over and over again and still keep crawling back for just one more bruise—when I myself have already stretched out every aching muscle, squeezed out every drop of vital liquid, and fractured every bone in my abused and protesting body just to get rid of one person, like a frenetic rondo without decrescendo???

Perhaps it’s an acquired taste. Perhaps the primal survival of our specie deems it necessary. Perhaps I am simply fucking weak.

Truly, I am not jealous of most people’s normal ability to let themselves loose and dive headfirst into everything at an uncharted whim. I am only ever jealous over my own lack of self-control with my incessant, irrational, one-sided reverence; though the mercurial world’s unpredictable rhythm pushes past like a steady heartbeat as it constantly heeds me to move on. Move on. Move on.

If only I were more human than that.

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Filed under Prose, Valentines Poetry

intercosmic

if you’re simply

too out there

like outer space

then i’m the

only cosmonaut

that dares to fly off

in a rocket and

remove my helmet

.

to take a deep

breath of your void

tastes of stardust

to make my lungs spin

maybe my head will

pop like a comet

or maybe you would be

my discovered planet.

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Musical Musings

As you cry in silver rings and pose
In a second you’ll be high and in the clouds alone
I never thought I’d see the day
But I see stars around your face
Just like we’re in the movies and you’re scared…

~*~

Music comfortably pouring in my ears

Of dulcet lullabies and scratchy guitar riffs

.

Keeping me warm, tones ever so familiar

Like an oversized threadbare pastel sweater

.

Like stirred english breakfast tea with no sugar

Like a burst of drizzling rain in the middle of summer

.

Like pleasant catnaps, huddled under soft covers

Like ocean waves cresting on coastal barriers

.

Like million-dollar paintings over the moon’s craters

Like a necklace of stars, quaintly twinkling as it scatters

.

Like fever dreams, syrupy and floral, quinine waters

Like a springtime frolic spent floating down winding rivers

.

Like nightmares and cold terrors and peter pan nevers

Like forgotten phantoms left faded for a lost lover

.

Like all the nostalgic memories still keeping me together

Like one existence that’s forever changed for the better

.

Tranquil music that feels comforting, familiar, and safe

And when everything’s simply too much, it’s my only escape.

~*~

Step back, I can’t believe
Do the math, the sky will fall anyways
Trust me, this is a blessing and a curse
This much I can’t deny…

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Whimsy

I’m a dandelion

I’ll make you wish for a laugh

I’m a venus flytrap

I’ll bite your innocent head off.

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The End of an Era

Here he is, he saves a grin
He wants to be the one who doesn’t have to sink a level
Indiscrete, in his retreat
All he needs is just a taste of the bitter pride
He held in her name…

~*~

Limits have their breaking pointss

And can fall in utter disrepair

What used to be bound with ropes

Now dangles by a precarious strand of hair

.

Mirrors have their cracking webs

And when they spread, it can shatter

No matter how hard you try to fix it

It’s won’t show the same reflection ever

.

Bodies have their wounds and sickness

And we’ll always try to slowly heal

But someday no medicine could cure

And we will then be rapidly killed

.

Words have an end to their capacity

Someday you might run out of meaning

We talk and take things for granted

And in the end are left silently staring

.

People have their gentle push

But sometimes it comes to a shove

And no amount of closing apologies

Can ever return the former love.

~*~

He’s in love with an isolation from emotion
Here he is awaiting sentence
A fool to think that anyone can escape guilt and anguish
A subtlety that can’t be learned, a subtlety that can’t be taught
He is caught in the lure of second thoughts
He might still care, as he settles down well aware…

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Inconceivable

What haven’t I done? What have I done?
What haven’t I done to deserve a cold war
On all sides? It’s so bleak all the time
“Stay with me. You’re alone in the center of hell. Just be.”
The longest winter I have ever seen
From hospital to hospital, repeat…

~*~

Her eyes won’t open up anymore

As the flower in her womb began to wilt tonight

Petals sifting into her nervous system

And she looks so good in bandaged white

.

Won’t you stay with me, please?!

The traffic lights won’t amount to the hell

That I’m driving myself straight into

Hoping to find her broken body at the end of the well

.

For a while, she was beginning to blossom

Delicate heliotrope blots dotting her pallid cheeks

But the intruding scarlet painted her open lips

She looks so beautiful, please let this be a trick…

.

Hold on, please hold on, I’ll be there with you

If only you’d take a breath if I held mine as long as I do

I could kill god for all the wrongs I’ve committed

But that doesn’t give him the right to take it out on you

.

Her pulsating shallow beat is slowly going thud thud thud

Like my fist on the hospital doors, I arrived in time for the flatline

As the thorns rage around her heart, the flower begins to decay

If she loses, then I’ve lost, I wouldn’t have it any other way

.

I can’t…I can’t believe this…why did you—why did you leave me?

My foot won’t ease on the pedal, and the carbon monoxide is choking

‘Cause there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and I can see her face

Calling out to me, the headlights blind me as I fall into her embrace…

.

C R A S H.

~*~

First I need to save the life of god
So that god can come and save me from myself
If I have to walk alone I’m giving up
I can’t stay here knowing love is not enough…

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What You Get, What You Regret

Cause I burned every bridge I ever built when you were here
I still try holding onto silly things, I never learn

Oh why, all the possibilities I’m sure you’ve heard…

~*~

That’s what you get for trying in idled vain to fool yourself again

That’s what you get for slitting the fragile throats of your only best friends

That’s what you get for letting the selfish demons drown and swim

That’s what you get for not getting in the first place that you will never win.

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fill in the blanks.

“And it’s four in the morning
I’m just trying to fix myself
What the hell did I do?”

~*~

blankness.

a constant void

washed-out

into a bleached white

still dirty, yet everything

has been scrubbed out

fastidiously, like

the writings on a blackboard

and the chalk dust

lingers in your fingertips,

the kind that you can’t blow away

and you’re stuck with

that unpleasant texture on your

hands for the rest of the day.

you’re zeroed-out;

multiplied, divided, and subtracted

until even the calculator

doesn’t know how to answer

except for a shameful

syntax error…

you don’t know where you

went wrong in your calculations.

now you’re staring dully

at the beige ceiling

listening to the rhythms

of a nameless music attempt vainly to

make your heart bleed, but it’s

all fucking static to you,

just another distraction to

keep you grounded

as gravity drags

you down in your grave

without even so much as a

respectful funeral or a dated tombstone.

your thoughts are as

senseless as every nerve in

your once-hurting flesh

your body got used to the pain,

one might dare guess

but the truth is you can’t feel it anymore

because it’s no longer your own—

to control, to use, to move around in to

your free will and accord

and you’re just pretending to perform,

waiting for the fateful day that the

puppeteer snaps your marionette strings, and

you drop lifelessly on the

shabbily-decorated stage of your existence.

you don’t even know where these

nonsensical thoughts are originating from;

all you know is the constant empty

sensation, a flatlined perception,

draining every bone in your borrowed body

physically, emotionally, and mentally

until you’re nothing more than

an amorphous bag of viscera

dripping numbly on that plastic chair

still gawping insensibly at the

rorschach beige ceiling, all the way to pure

b l a n k n e s s———

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Of Bards and Boulevards

I am a poet, and I am here to tell you a story.

But, be forewarned, for I do not narrate. I simply leave mischievous glimpses and equivocal fragments for you to pick up and stitch together on your own. I do not wish to be straightforward; for the better adventure is surrendered on a vertical highway. Instead I provide narrow twisted paths and interminable dead ends, unhelpful road signs and perennially blinking broken traffic lights, confusing directions to nowhere that will lead you to everywhere. It is solely up to you to decide where you shall end up, whether it be a populated city with brightly glowing billboard lights, or a dark narrow alleyway with a fetid corpse abandoned under the dumpster. The exact same steps taken can lead to either one at any given time. The travel is truly yours to pursue, and I am merely there to provide you with what scant counsel you might require, and even then, my offers of assistance might be questionable, and the information given will be more misleading than useful. For I am a poet, not a mere storyteller, and my intricate words are your only guide, your sole map and compass in this discordant infinite chaos of a universe that I have created. Never take them as they are, and pray caution, for they do not want you to arrive at your destination. And neither do I.

I am a poet, and I’ll tell you to get lost.

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Filed under Prose