They talk about everything so coarse and grainy-
but not my mouth, empty and cold.
Lukewarm particles of mother’s voice
White/ blue/ grey-
I see shades of attachment and delirium.
Together, through a visceral bone,
Skins aglow- white talcum powder all distorted.
My dressing table is a desert.
A pause. Concrete and blind sun.
I watch my image as strong as an eel,
a pivotal insect preying on itself
frolic, lurid paper towns-
all departing my marigold fingers one by one.
Counting stops and so does the nuptial song
with neon green signs, and yellow street children,
the hem of my lips, spiral now.
Here- I go to my bed..
She is a small island
A voiceless twig to flutter
A crecent of moon dropped from beneath-
the body is resourceful
spun into a river.
Now I am silent as I watch my window
with angular toes amd face
birds so small and distant,
That is that. That is that.
Bones awaiting the hours to fly by,
And here people like light rays leave
Salt without wrinkle
Ceiling without star.
I am calm. I am sand. I am calm.
It is the calmness that settles, flees and aborts
into miniature beings of discomfort blankets and nap.
A rare yellow minute when the birds die in the womb.
The hem of my body is paper
and my tongue- the silk threads of ice cubes
The night spreads its monotonous tone under my moan
the voices that erupts my chest often,
about your skin:
about your name:
the existence of the Sun inside your wounds,
the mouth opens and a soft touch sits inside
The touch is of your scarlet memories
the sea beneath a mountain.
Nothing remains to be said now.
The body demands a blindfold
a language beyond comprehension
it wishes to float
to tear itself apart
with veins that sing songs of Spring.
a thing blooms too.
A thing exists too.
madness is an unleashed song
on my forehead of desire
like eye of sin protruding from all the corners
soaked in a desperation
counting backwards the hiccups spend under the sheet.