Category: –

the memoriter aspect of the living

before the language leaves me
and I am run away with languor


The tides of memory come in swells. I have returned many a setting sun to the deep blue sea. Who taught me to like myself? I used to hang back with each changing of swell. I used to charge in, never missing a swell. Who made me love my face? You who soothed this head or you who sought the diary ways to forget this face?

When asked I never tell. I don’t want to sell that. Reject it like a wanker. Tonight is my undercutting the torture of life. Or a mere imposition of a narrative line. So I tell you something for free (give yourself and retain yourself, because all of you is not welcome):

Lucky for me, sometimes, I still feel that love.

transfixed

It was last night in my sleep that i found my knees bruised. With these knees I sprint down the long line of green and rose bushes straight into your freckled arms. You rub a hard boiled egg back and forth rhythmically across my tender purple skin, softly holding my gaze while the blood beneath moves

the very thought of you

I dip my feet in the swimming pool. It is cold but the running lights in the reflection glow like bonfire. All night I have been sucking on this last cherry pit. Slowly, suddenly, it slides and lodges itself in my throat… now my veins are thick with blue, face the whiter shade of pale. The very thought of you.

One Day We’ll Have It All

Only 7 sleepless weeks have gone by at the dining table. She tears a new fruit lovingly and violently apart, saying we eat red, Pepe, little by little Pepe, hold the seeds. Unsure of when to spit, Pepe had harboured altogether fistfuls of them between his quiet cheeks for fear of resolving his ignorance – and the mess that comes with. Flowers now grow in his belly from the few accidentally pushed down the pipe. Pepe, mesmerised and repulsed by the ritual, finally spits.

The patient coagulated ruins take the shape of the cave that was his mouth, almost resembling the once pregnant pomegranate

These are the pieces of my youth, The small secrets and not-so-great expectations that defined my coming of age

Two paths diverged in a wood and you can laugh at mine but i am going to sleep on yours. You laugh like a flower, teeth like teacups, eyes like –– ––, pure as the middle of a cucumber. I leave out every thing that actually happened and has been said. Two handfuls of soil joined by a mighty spit! Please laugh at mine but i am going to sleep on yours.