when humans stink



My voice is a purgatory lie.
a solemn inhuman thread of existence,
the voice of this teeth crackling,
fingers going numb during cold shaky nights.
moist, stinking, moist language of nights.

A honeysuckle stung of a tear marking my white body,
flowerless, wavelengths of blurred nights again and again
you come and sit inside my skull,
you will perhaps have boneless maps of jitters.
And humans stink.
they stink like an abrupt old fist.
Mouths of dry saliva. Hollow and hopeless.
A frenzied attack of humans is like the orange peel.
you wish to unveil the skin,
it pokes your eye like a stencil.

And my mind talks to my heart,
in endearment still unknown
of soiled tattered sheets of oblivion.


  1. Your poems remind me of Sylvia Plath’s works. Your poems reflect existentialism from woman’s perspective. I marvel at the way you create images and make use of metaphors and analogies, the choice of words is excellent. Very post-modernist!! You have a making of a great writer πŸ™‚

    Liked by 1 person

  2. You and your ingenious lines of prose always bundled in either creativity or truth (or both!) forever astounds me. Today it was right from the start, β€œMy voice is a purgatory lie.” πŸ’œπŸŒΈ ~K

    Liked by 1 person

      1. Looks like the hiatus treated you well; at least I hope? I think taking a break helps the spirit reform. ☺️❀️

        Liked by 1 person

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