In the sky.

we look at the same clouds.
the same loose hanging blue tint of our elbow.
we sniff the same sky,
the paper balls of dreams.
ah, it reminds me of your whole body.
a map cascading through your hairline to your hip.

a sky resides there too.
The water. The rain.
The crinkling sheets of staircase.
the steps that go mad.
mad/ inflated/ swing.

i often want to hold your breath
between my palms, a souvenir of Cupid’s.
or maybe preserve and turn in into a vintage burp.
oh yes, i can swallow this sky.
i can swallow you.
for we both are liquid,
between the squirming gasps.

there is a corner of Life.
up in the grey, lava, fat sky.
we shall meet like dust, like a sound.
like a pool of soft indentation.
up there.
in the sky.
between the
calamitous whiff and your black eyes.


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Give me/ something

perhaps i got caught between your silk fingers,
gently throwing the vomit away,
petals of lips brushing away,
swaying like thunders.

perhaps, i slipped into you
before time,
before spring could collapse on my belly,
time sticks too many collection.

i am bloodlust,
caffeine on the stove, incensed.
expanding like perforated sky
only to melt like never before.

a stretch of copper sky,
hips full of smoke & nostalgia.
perhaps i loved you way too much.

give me a moment erupting like shreds of golden mirror,
honey dripped touch,
mouths swallowing a sweet lie of ours.
something like that, but real.


I think of you

you sit on my corrosive neck and feel the black void spot,
i have bones made of bone-china and a little neck to proceed.
i stand and look for you in aberrant currents,
i split daylight across your arms.
to know the layers of your skin & words
i perform rituals day after day.

A windswept memory tucked between your lips.
a grey memory folded like velvet curtains.
i imagine you in a surrealistic way.
A song to hum, to ingest the threads of madness.
i think of you in moments of cacophony that stich my ears with a soft noise of you.


This poem is broken

restlessness spits the wall of death
in hunger & pain.
my body rotates like a disc
surrendered sound of music.
tip toed stigma, a struggle each day
insects sound screeches,
this wooden brain,
or an empty space of lovemaking.
call it anything.
say it names, zig-zag platonic voids
plastic belly button games.
sick voice of head.
call it anything.
a flower holds the world,
its a silhouette speaking of a grave.
____________________________________

©Mvs