River Lines

10^th February 2013

#6 River Lines

Curse, I lift my palm
to see the mystery in
river lines running across
the country, the map,
your face – it turns out deeper,
bending fast and deciding
everything that could have been
avoided.
All these sticky
days, whimpers of tiny,
rubbed against the background
monotony of orange peels,
we wish to live longer.
We wish to breathe,
rush to drink the water,
echoing in the continuous
well of a deeper thirst.

Silent Song

#5 Silent song

Used to hate
wind humming in my head,
till she silently sang
the entire sleeping car.
We were not going,
not mourning,
getting run over by trams
and gigantic ants.
The burst of silence
echoing in patterns,
the flight of a myriad
against the twilight.
Untying the shoelaces
hiding from the
deepest wells,
blocking the lacrimal canals.

Watching Vultures

January 6, 2013

#4 Watching vultures

Sleep or the lack of it,
watching vultures
in anticipation of greater circles,
warm water
in my lungs.
Abandoned midway
a fanged conversation,
forsaken.
Grief,
a derivative of
modern gestures,
a dog’s tail,
wags its way
through human eyes
and dead meat.

Talk me

#3 Talk me

Can’t lose
her grip,
smash my
lips, I
assure
you of your immortality.
Column of smoke
existential
very old
thicker than texts,
proud and dark.
Tastes similar,
talks lonelier,
burning conversation.
Finish your drink.

Hide my violet

Abandon Now (Series)

December 8, 2012

#1 Hide my violet

Come closer to the fiction
of mosquito bites
keeping you alive in the blood.
Wrinkled and grey,
tormented by the staircase that
vanishes upwards,
nowhere but the smoke of centuries,
bundled up and hurried
denying an eye,
forcing an answer
as the lips bled, ran dry.
Meeting the corner of the roof,
black and certain,
cunning of the smoke that
hides my violet from me.

Crooked

October 28, 2012

#10 Crooked

Last words were please …please … please
all inside my honeycomb, my pretty bomb
exploded in multiples of self respect, an evaluation
of a strong autumn, a period of indolence.
Caught crazy in a loop of apologetic looks,
lost the map, lame purpose of writing another hopeless
night with a crooked light on my face.