random

i have thought not to wash it
let my corset be haunted by
your sweat...

i haven't washed my lips yet
and starving since that day
i dont want the stain of your saliva
to smudge
and the lashes of your hungry tongue..

and pastels over my throat
and down the bird's nest...
i feel i am growing within
from a waste to identity...

For my Brown Boy..

Can you paint a Winter landscape with
blue temples and puss and blood clot

a sex enchantress down the barberry isle,
in a lunar template, beside the lonely lake?

the occult priest can. One who prophesies
nightingales in the veins and slurp on beauty

and gaze at red kimono pinnacles
sugar dipped lips in ambiguous packs.

Black forest hunching on the shoulders
Of the red-wine woods and slit…

The priest is my man, my surrealist
Strumming the impulse and orgasm blues

Love stricken serpent, smoky path crawling
Playing the white keys of the pout keyboard

Grilling all that these bodies worth
Unison, a gamut of passion and apteryx!

Thoughts of a local lotus

The pyrogenic
sun that debates love
is cubical at the order
of

a frog
an amphibian male
seeking the lotus shade
away from mathematical
controversy

* * *
The life of a seed
Is seeded in the fruit born of it
Cyclical
Psychology transcending from
Water
Precipitates
And trickles down in darkness
Ink of dismissed liquid eye

across that window
The sun is shunning his eyebrows…

* * *
Anarchy
My stray dog
In search of bones and numbers
That labels
Wounded genitals
Of burnt prisoners
Huddling across the purple-stone bay

Cannibalism devours
Species of poetry
Not me
But the grey intellects
To bisect the
polemical beauty
Of sex
beneath every face…

1.

the trumpet cloud
and metaphors
running string through
dead, divine hopes

the plate is so green
and breathing silhouettes
tracking gills
of liquid fishes

brown lips
and the boat pose for a sail
bewitched by colours
and wings-
mast
of Iphigenia

surreal fleet
so interstellar
floating down
a log
the shore
of music
naked wounded
sincerely
butterfly...

Stitched

roses
underneath
the skirt that nature
wear often

are
sown to distress
lips cannot put in a smoke
nor bleed a seed

they
will sing to hymen
the stories of the ships
and sea

and
men lost in the leaves
the roses often shade
They sink

to
bottomless sea
anchoring the fragile soil
and

white ink
white ink
that writes nothing...

abrasion

love don’t wrong me for the carved slit
my blood wanted to meet you
a Postmortem Testament

not a drop of blood
Away from me,
You flow within
Into the Black Sea

A heart tossed across
Like a pebble into air
And the violent sea within
Has to appease her fury

A thirst that twined into oblivion
dead leaves crumpled, red.
A dismembered hope
Of planting a nerve in the blue

The drums were me
The bass, the acoustic, the metal veins
My gypsy skirt into support stand
I rendered beats
I rendered a play

not a drop of blood
away from me,
You flow within
into me.

Leaves

Beaked leaves
scratching fate
that vehicles sealed to highway earth

Shades absent
on naked winter
and branches that poke the white