I prefer reminiscing the peak of dawn,
the scene of myself lying all limp and lanky
after all my energy I transferred
into your lips.
Spent. Unlike the superficial beauty
that I keep alive in my perfume bottle and complexion
to seduce my equally dashing counterpart.
Body of a man.
Face of a woman.
Him? Her? My understanding is blurred
while I’m still drunk on life and nihlism.
I like your big hands, though,
a cheap mimicry of the real package.
Old wisdom told me that
ya ain’t good for me, bubs-!
ever since I dubbed you the ultimate
Generator of Dreams.
But what happens when dreams become a reality?
“Stay,” I sobbed into an imaginary breastcoat
after you smothered me so hard my head swam
in a narcotic pool of my own making.
“Exist. Even if just.
Else I’ll wither.
Lie to me so hard you fail me
Live a little,
Lie a lot.
This old song
reminds me of the old love;
of chemical synapses
and aimless relapses
and then the lack thereof.
It niggles in the crevice of my mind
Waiting to latch onto sight,
And then it’s a fusion
Of rapture and willing delusion;
But only when the time is right.
They sing ripened milk sacs
slung across the chest, bearing
respite for a weary head to lean onto,
nourishment gathered by The Rib itself,
and love, a sweetly overflowing fountain
savored among the world’s sisters.
If ever you need to exchange
one heart for the other,
you so self-unaware,
you’ll find me crying
like a fussy infant babe
long overdue for its sleep…
I can lose myself in a garden
of clustered follicles.
like flying buttresses
leading into entropic passion.
A framed testament to your soul,
I lust for a life dedicated to
making love to them.
I found this one in an old notebook!
You were the one holding
that baby retriever and facing the camera
With a gleaming grin of
Ecstasy all over your face.
You were the one, with a sleight
Of touch, snapped an aesthetic
Of them playing,
Their cootie-cuddly baby eyes shut tight
In dreamy ruminations.
You are the one hiding beneath that
mound of wriggling fur,
Not knowing, innocent as they,
As I once was,
Who’s really hiding under that lively mound.
You say, “puppy farm”
But for all I know,
I say, “puppy mill.”
I don’t like puppies.
As I tell us my story of you,
The tension of your omnipresence spills
All over the tangible world
Like a child splattering its wholesome glory
Over a ripe canvas.
Everywhere I am,
You are —
For the trees to breathe in,
For my father to hear my giddy delight,
To guffaw with my friends,
For you to oust my secret stories
Out of the woodworks.
For the mountain-tops
To rejuvenate the air
And draw a portrait
The ripple has ceased,
Longing has eased —
One of those dilly-dallying days
If I think of you again,
I need only spread my tendrils
I caught the glorying gaze of a cherry blossom tree;
Its fortune told me the future of my hearting flame.
I inhale its preening scent of beautiliciousness
And throw it to the sky,
I saw you. Then.
You didn’t even spare me a sympathetical glance.
Please don’t hate me now. Hate me later.
All I need is an understanding while I cry,
A moment in the interlude of infinity,
My thoughts flicker over to you —
I think a pixie sprite wrapped
Its spindly slender antennas around my heart
And emitted warm pulses through my quivering veins.
A whiff of burberry once again
Uplifts my head into the air
As if it’ll snag my chin and kiss me down
To the barren strips of my soul.
My neck aches from craning at each footstep
In each desperate hour.
Perhaps another day, then,
I’ll hear your voice
Sweet as bubbling milk with honey.
You say your lines to-do,
but your eyes ask,
“Why this hicktown stranger?”
The air weans in partings of a summer breeze
But nay if it hasn’t swept in a lovelorn fear, or some,
At which I gaze in disconcerted ease.
It’s cold here. It’s cold here. I keel, then I’m numb;
That only you’d lie your love onto me — that I’d fain
In a frenzied season’s past, a past my pain is from.
One flitting thought, a thousand strolls purged in vain;
‘Tis the consequence of your haunting face,
So sweet my perfume smells like pain.
What now? No fear, no sense, no rush, no pace,
My game carried on in unlimited breadth;
I can’t wait forever, but I can’t win time’s race.
And so, my eyes faded in recurring death,
I pass you my final requiem on the fog of my breath…
Yeah, the comma after the end of the title isn’t a mistake.
Tried to make this one a variation of the Petrarchian sonnet.
Laced with heart’s wild and warm-blooded
Hymns of praise and pure,
Stray thoughts spurt like a fountain top,
And all its sweetly pleasures do they rain.
You’re warmer than blood,
Closer than flesh,
I wish to the Aether each day afresh
That your revelation was not in vain.
Every spirit of the living air,
Every mirage holds a light
To your ghostly countenance
And breathes life into me anew.
It shimmies down my veins
Into yearnful elations
As I utter you my finest proclamations:
“Can I keep you?”