ApsaraFind me sunken into thelotus field, bathing skin silvergreen,waist-deep and pinkin sunset, and we will cry:for three-faced elephants,for rain,for the dancers threading gracebetween their fingertips—until I dress in the heaviness,a sarong of heat.
O FevraleWitching hour, welcomed with a sigh,bare-breasted and ink-stained in the night.Half in love in this half-life half-light;pisat O Fevrale navsnryd, dreamingof the gods. Wanderer, today I died anddied again, and whispered prayersto clasped hands… until the nestleddroplets fell away like sunrays at dusk;and when moonrise came, I sang again.
SurrealismThree a.m., andGod is in my bathtubagain—sipping whiskeyhallelujahs;backlit bya freshwater moonin the mother-of-pearl sky.
DebussyRestless under theclairvoyant moon—dreams quiver likecandlelight againsta long-lost muse.
AsphodelA beckoning:watercolour sky shrinking,too late, teeth fall; pearlsfrom a broken string.Blink and the moon ignites—but the sheets are stillenvelope-stiff.
The WindblownLike a sparrow, you perch; toes curled and brown eyes wide, arms tinted blue with cold. In my haste to reach you I trip upon your shoes, tiny little things still drizzle-damp and abandoned at the door. "What are you doing?!" Your legs stretch for summers as you stand, dress billowing from you like a white flag of surrender. "Ava, come inside. Come inside. Please." You stare past my outstretched hands and step away—a sparrow, caught in a downdraft.
SeashineSacred skinwhere heavens and oceancollide,an imprint on salted lungsan echoof aching, ofa moonlit yearning upon therolling tide.
PeonyAlone, but forthe red boots marchingthrough mycathedral heart: Iam beating echoesin this city of thelost. Ghost-stepping little girl'sdreams, I visit mamain the night; butflowers and wine won'tpay for her light.
PaletteThe painted lady stands,watercolouredand waiting for a cab.
Sundropo n some days I watch you rise and ragewith a new yearfirework fervour–untamed and glorious,pulling the years togetherwith a snap of your fingers.but some days you are languid,stretching like the summer dustingof freckles along your forearms, theslumberous strands of hair shutteringyour sky-eyes from the morning light.on these days, I think the earth spinsslower and the birds sing a littlequieter. on these days, I lookat you and I think:sundrop.
Of BlissKissing daffodils sway,serenaded by the waver ofgossamer wings;faces blushing brightas the sunlightslips away.
Sky EyesDesert hands tell talesof a hundred arid summers, butyou are no longer as cloudless as they(there is a stormcreeping through blue, blue veins).But tell the sky to keep her sorrow,that grey cascade blurring againsteyelids and horizons;and suppress her misbegottendroplets, seeping into the soddenground underfootfor there is still sun in your sky eyes.
(c)loves and (c)loversi am no artist's muse, i am no ship's harbor i am no hero's weaker heel, i am no good earth's floweri have never been your lovernor have i ever kissed you,- not even once though i dream of you (c)love-scented, with lips shaped like a lucky (c)lover's- kissing you and to be kissed by you over and overi can never profess,not even confess note: even to myselfi stay standing, (b)raving the cold nights,pretty much batty and bootless yet again, the absence of you weighs metric tons on my ringing ear, shivering nape, and repressed shoulderyou dam(n) me withyour body;you are my river's boulder,untapped territory,and undefined border
glass in the tidegradac, croatia; summer.it is a town climbed up from the sea:a salt hymn, an exhalation, a brightly calcifiedspray. the houses here are overgrownas wildflowers, paths like tiny winding veinssprung alive between them. from my balcony i watchthe sun crest slowly into afternoon,and mothers lead their childrendown stone slopes, arterial pullto the water. by the shore,vendors sell bottles of olive oil, salt,sage, gathering up anything with the tasteof what mystery inhabits the air—brimming overthe glass lips, a curving kind of joy,the whole earth, a bowl of it.at night, my uncle drinks beerand i drink wine. he watchesthe football game and i tryto write this poem; try to bottle with languagesome tipped draught of the night waterbelow me, the children still dancing loudin its repeated unfurling,opal spray.in the morning, we swim, and stretch outour salt-damp bodies at the edgeof the sea. lying there, i rustlethrough the beach's tiny stones, pick out emer
Compendium1.Pair of lovers:the greyed doves perch,an old married couple.2.Lonely navigator—a bumblebee lands, graceless;the flower droops.3.The rain-swollen skybruised purple, and darkening:work of angry gods.4.Lanterns released—a thousand midnight suns;night becomes day.5.Kitchen cyclamen,yearning for raindropsa window away.6.Silver dragonweaving through fields—overflowed river.7.Afternoon sunmeets the stained glass door—light-dance ensues.8.Night sky, aglow:yellow gleaming of thelightbulb moon.9.Citrus silence:an afternoon respiteby the lemon tree.
ElsewhereNights like these I stay awake watching glass shardsshine in heaven-light, and my mother says that I should go, Elsewhere.Rain doesn't stop for the little losts—underwater at one o'clock;still the streetlights blaze like midnight suns, and whale song driftspast parked cars.Nights like these I am waterlogged, wandering, and I don't findAtlantis just a sofa downtown where the whale lovesongs are raindrop-borne,slipping through the window and dripping onto hands. I remind myself I amonly alone, though missing—the weight of my cat on my feet and mysister's soft sleeping.
SehnsuchtOctober again;and the curtains billowwith broken glass echoes andMendelssohn's bride waltzingto better times(einzweidrei)She becomes the rain,and breaks her own heart as the sounddripsright through us.
Euros' InfernoIn a smoke blanketmistaken for overcast, hewraps us –the wind, undoing –and the old gum tree writhesagainst him, butwe sit insidewith our homes on fire.
adamantine AtlassometimesI think I used to be an architect,in a past life or adrug-induced hallucinationor something.I know itthe way you know things in dreams.I have this urgeto make things exactly perfect,straight and angled and curved,every line clean and directand pointedas a functionalist fantasy.but my armature's tired ofholding the weightof the world on itsshoulders;my cast-iron limbsare shaking,vibrating,trembling.no structure can perfectly embodydesign:form does not alwaysfollow function:all the concrete in the worldwouldn't match upto the pillarsI've placed myself on.
questioning peopleyour DNA rememberscaves AND starsbronzed pulseskittish pulsarswe're space starvedgraced ungratefulfaith unfaithfulflesh postcardscomets recomposedwe're heaven knows
Autumn was my first love.October, I follow you -from the magic lights of New Yorkto moonshines in Georgia,until the colors dissolve.The anxious poetry of autumnmade a memory of me.Here’s to things I take for granted:September blues,chasing airplanes,country road thunderstorms.Unspoken words, unwritten ideas.October, I follow you;I thought I saw you on the shorewhere the river runs through goldon the last boat leaving the city of a hundred spires -or perhaps Pittsburgh(it was the lights I guess).Here’s to the things we leave behind:sunbeams in November,letters addressed to no one,poems, wounds, dead birds.I’ve got that summertime sadness.Maybe you’re gonna come back;we’re changing our ways, taking different roadsand loneliness knows me by namebut October, I follow you;without you I’m a winter heart,a love story you don’t want,a November shade of grey hunting ghostsin cities that sleep inside our heads.You told me you lied the night you kiss
unfilteredii’d tell you I hated youif you had a voice or a face,or any sense of tangibility asidefrom the spider fingers you useto crawl through my brainyou are not beautiful, likeall the other poets protest. youare the red in my eye, likea pen bled; the ragged tomy fingernails, the hitch of my breathwhen it catches in my throat.iibefore i go, i’ll write a million letters (a millionpennies for my thoughts, bitter, embeddedunder my tongue) and send them to peoplei’ve never met, telling them how my eyes were bluewhen i was little but now are the same grayi’m choking on, how i am maddie and how that’s shortfor a name i was never graceful enough for, howi tell myself stories of lives i’ll never live so ican go to sleepbecause when i’m really gone, that’s all that’ll be leftof meiii(it’s funny what peopletry to justify with words)ivyou never loved me,you selfish thing, i wonder whyi wasted so many nights relivin
preludesi.blue rose into the city backdroplike balloons, a million for themorning sun prelude.ii.i've not slept a dreambut i have cried a salty faceand letters spilled like beansinto my moleskine,almost as virgin as i once waswith few stories between my covers.iii.the kettle's belly boilslike my head upon a pillow.iv.i am guilty for rarely finishing my teaeven when i use the small mugs;pour, rinse, repeat.v.perhaps today i will play dead.vi.perched behind my blindsit dawns on me that i am surroundedby walled neighbours, strangers,they're just preludes to loversthe way i am alwaysprelude to the one.
SuffocationI found a vintage denim jacketin the bottom of my mother's closet,underneath a black-and-white montageof shoebox photographs with burned edges.Like she had been trying to asphyxiatethe memory of my fatherbut kept coming up for air.
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you? i. summergirl,you are crowthroated and tumblingthrough the aspen grovehair on fire with sunrise, lungsfull of sky.eyelashes like wildflowersand every morning bringsa new spray of frecklesand a sharper curve to your collarbones.the cornfields hold no shadowsfor your lighthouse eyesand there are no endings in thatsurefooted smile. ii. you have grownso fast.autumn finds you with broken anklesleaning on an oak branchand watching the skies.crow to sparrow--you are quiet.summergirl, there is peace in silence,perched treetop,fallen antlers in your hands.you will come to mourn your deer.keep them close. iii. by winter you have paled,and like the streams your eyes have frosted over.you feel the chill--there is no need for sight.summergirl, th
microcosm of the young despondentsfolk here are emptyof rhapsody brightness(airlocked possibilities stay the wonder of living--out walks logic into the worldto live half-heartedly) she has a knot in her throat tied long agoin a countryside weddingblue skied perfection at the timeyonder impends a husband in black attirestaring out across the quiet landhe can hear his heart slowslow downthe dreams of the town people made to sail in the open ocean, arelandlocked away for safe suffocationas held breaths in a cemetery
001 i am a whirlwind of bruised knees (purple) an aching heart (dark blue) twisted guts (red) & a regret that could crumble mountains. (green-green-green)
SerenissimaSlumbering sunstake a midmorning nap;alleyways bright withgolden ladies,their smiles canal-deep.Nightfall brings guides:stone sighs and dead light,(never so alive).
One of my great loves, Venice. -Featured:Here by `dreamsinstaticHere by *imaginative-lionessHere by ~MrSarcasticBeastHere by *imaginative-lionessThank you so much!