How many times do I shift my bodily postures? from a room so cold, so absolute, to a room full of hopes. There is a never -ending system of dying things in here. I move like a ‘banjaran’ wishing for dead leaves, painted auburn sky sunlight hitting my pale, loose skin, I move to hide… Continue reading Countless

On Dreams

The dreams have started to spread thudding under my chin and elbow the dance of a song, a bridge of warm laughter. We lick each other in warm oil and nights, wet sheets and trees of hope A final leap and a levitating scratch on skin, it crawls under my slippery neck the loose, aging… Continue reading On Dreams

Flower and Fruits

These words will arrive in formations about my sleep about the morning fresh dew. about Point of indulgence. Crisp periphery of sliced strawberries. About dying Flowers and Fruits. Scratch, fingers across belly button. Finding appropriate word is almost like flowing incessantly. Organs fluttering. My words will occur in shapeless boundaries with lanterns and lost sheets… Continue reading Flower and Fruits