Tag Archives: poetry

circling infinity

colder nights

where i wish

your limbs

are intertwined

with mine

summer snowfall

cotton fibres

wandering

empty branches

all over again

vast meadows

for ancient souls

to rest on

fragrance of

inkstains and dying

strawberries

breeze whistling

haunting melodies

but i stay away

from noisy static

and i listen to

a smiling song,

hidden blush

distractions

oh, i don’t mind

messy clouds

clearing up

a splatter

of shy stars

slowly make way

for a painted

embrace

fairy lights and

oceanic laughter

lying in wait

a soft illusion

of hyperrealisms

and misplaced

daydreams

fell dryads of life

neither mine,

nor yours

our transience

taking chances

still fighting

against control

and colours

and this violent

riot of frigid

chemicals

blissful nothing

smitten euphoria

an oxytocin kiss

for a love that

won’t exist

in a future

vespertine or

less miserable

than a cold night

all alone,

contemplating

sombre and lost

picking dead grass

from high tops

and sweaters

and tangled veins

gently hoping for

a vacancy, yet

unraveling at

the harshest thought

of somebody else

interlocked with

your limbs

arms and legs

talks and lips and a

puzzle of bones

and reposing bodies

tranquil hush

whispers of blue

fading away

and falling down

keeping all of your

warmest nights.

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INHERENT

There’s too much congestion and a lack of invention
Material eyes requiring constant attention
It’s the mystery lost in a web, in the well
As the spider awakes and decides what to sell…

~*~

Implicit implications, engraved warnings writ on sewn eyelids

Next to “never forget about them” and “fuck your pleasant tidings”

Hiding every heretic’s anthem, holding the threats above our heads

Elucidate all the progenies, surrender sickness without health

Radical remembrance, wrought past ranks of liberated contrabands

Expect the imminent expiration of another revolutionary dissonance

Neorealism strikes the uncertain death of sensationalistic inhibition

Through temporal hostility, arises the final response of failed anthropocentrism.

~*~

No handle on what comes next
Anti-passion makes an empty old din
Because a fearful eye’s pulling strings for thee
Watch on, round and round and
Round it goes, human nature!

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lágrima

i cried

for the first

time in a

long time

today, and

.

the tears

are not for

me, they are

meant for

someone else

.

and the

sadness is

not mine,

only my lack

of control

.

towards them—

i wept, and it hurt,

but i could only

imagine how much

worse it was for you.

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Fall From Grace

pure disgust is felt

on the frayed ribbons

around your chest

you call your sanctity

.

as if it’s quite derivative

of a decried angel’s cut—

the pierrot’s sole pathway

to your own humanity

.

but it’s just vapour;

smoke and hallucinogens

lies dribbling from the

sludge of your brain,

.

crawling away in a

toxic kind of temporal

streak, an indictment

of classic chloride pain

.

oh, she’s malevolent

such brutality must be

a sanitarium propaganda,

just covered in someone

.

else’s later stages of rapid

cryptic dementia—pardon me,

but you’re still a stagnant

priestess…aren’t you?

.

we have ancient shrines built

over your grave, and waxen

wings, and the fruit that bore

no harm; as if that fake religion

.

is easily digestible—but our

disgust will constrict, just as

yours ties the final knot on the

noose wrapped around your jaw—

.

this is not your vestal sanctuary.

we are not your godless paradise.

autonomy is simply the crowning eden

you shall soon gamble away to lose.

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mementos and keepsakes

pieces of you—

scattered on post-it

notes, and cute stickers,

and bright polaroids

grinning at me every time

i have my head buried

beneath my terse hands,

sitting blankly by the table as my

unsteady life starts giving in

to the inexorable collapse…

.

i think it’s killing my mind

.

but i take these little

pieces of you, and i use it

to fill in the missing patches

within me that’s making

me crash and crumble

until they render me whole;

maybe someday i could

finally return them to you, but

not without pieces of me

still clinging on to it—

.

i hope you won’t mind.

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sometimes i exist i think

I can feel a change
I lie awake every night, scratching
At the back of my eyelids
Nothing good ever happens
In the midnight hour…

~*~

distance stemmed

from coveting and

plainness, an upside

down mixolydian

reverie, never enoughs

for nobody was—crave to

choose isolation from

an option of tenfolds

because it eases the

passageways and

makes for a placid tale

of another ghost haunting

their own apartment

simply because they

wanted to leave the door

without a key just ever

so slightly unlocked

~*~

Don’t look at the moon
While the light is draining
It’s slowly killing you
Don’t look at the moon…

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Echopraxia

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I am not as truthful with my words

As I am with the mirror of another person

Irritating, a mimicked eloquence in my every verve

A quiet death in between the lines of reason

.

Yet I yearn to be autobiographical

To move the hills with my own sorrow

Bleed ocean waves with the sound of my voice

Crashing, cresting—swollen abyss

.

No one will touch it with a paperweight

My skin itches with healed sores, my mouth

Itches with the desire to be heard,

My mind is severed from my body; regret, culminating

.

They hear my suffering but not my thumping heart

I think it to be nonexistent—am I the truth?

No one notices me. No one comes near. No one

Prays for the crying shadow in the corner of the room.

.

So I atone with my own subtle mess. The ink stains

They praise me for my joy—my lack of it, my lack

Of self-respect, my lack of nerves within the soul—as soon as

This chapter closes, my lies become no more than another neglected tale.

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Myiasis

PicsArt_03-19-07.47.38

she pushes the blowflies—

in her mouth—at the very

back of her throat, when

she tells me she loves me

.

like a corpse of flowers on

the table centerpiece, she

drags a painted hand across

her plate to keep the maggots

away from her meal—futilely

as she is dining with their king

.

and my missing fork is lodged

between her sternum, just above

her left lung, yet she still thusly

refuses to return it to me for

the rest of the evening. all before

.

a farewell kiss; that tastes of

burnt steak and congealed blood—

i don’t know if she means it, but

all i have is bitter saltiness in

my hypoxic lips, pulled up into a

tight puppet smile, mimicked by

.

her scarlet ones. she turns and

imperceptibly coughs—once, an

escaped wing fluttering—and caresses

silver in my veins to mark her goodbye.

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regenerate

Every time I think about your voice
I start to tremble, and my heart’s aching
And anytime you need a shoulder, I’m right there
You just gotta find a way, a way…

~*~

it’s been over

a year, and all

my insides have

turned bright blue

.

coldly choking

and churning at

the constant lie

to pull me through

.

it’s been over

a year, and yet

my insides don’t

feel brand new

.

still spitting

and screaming

“damn it, why did

it have to be you?”

~*~

You scream ‘don’t look’
You scream ‘don’t touch’
What have they done?
What have I not?

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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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