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Dec 2018 · 567
whitefly
touka Dec 2018
I keep seeing the snow
on its sideways swing
pelting, impervious, against the ground

to escape human conclusion,
conviction

without fail
it's all the same to me
I pluck the fourth leaf, before it can wither

to be a willing participant to love
I don't know

I watch it thicken from the window
a wayward swarm of whiteflies
that building, bloodless blanket outside
I don't know
it never sticks
stranded,
luckless
in the stomach of the solstice
likened to things
that have been likened to other things
Nov 2018 · 454
Algernon
touka Nov 2018
the first time I saw Algernon
I was sure, God existed,
but He'd looked away for a second too long
and Algernon was bred, born in that shadow
of the Lord's lashes

the first time I saw Algernon,
the world felt wider
and it all lead to his hands
every road outstretched to meet his feet

Algernon made my life feel precarious,
like it'd topple
delicate as a tightrope of cornsilk
and he tugged on it as so

the first time I saw Algernon,
his eyes bore into me
chipped away at me
like patient cleave to reluctant marble

if a feeling could be a man,
summarily, he was a wrenching kind of curiosity
just like when I'd have that dangerous appetite
to flip to the final page of the book I'd only just begun,
far too ahead of myself
just to see
pore over those unexpected words
though I knew it would only be trouble

the trouble with trouble
is that I am, in some sick way,
eager to see it

the trouble with Algernon was
he kept wise
and kept me none the wiser

he looked on me as a child would a bird with a broken wing
morbidly
I cannot help you, but for the sake
of my yet untainted conscience,
I will convince myself I can
and let you die somewhere I can see
like the final page

and the cats tongue I ended up on
the band around my finger
the bite that never lost its teeth

the first time I saw Algernon,
it was a repetition of motion
some calculated corrosion

like gnashing fang
and shadow
and outstretching road
and patient cleave

and he was much,
too much

like me
Nov 2018 · 647
hexis
touka Nov 2018
I̫ ̰̻̥̯̰̖̰w̖̤̗̞a̮͚͚̜̹͓n̪͙ͅt̤̭ ̳͍̝͍̰m͓̠y̗ ̯̭̝͎̱̲d͎̼̙̺a̭͈ṳ̺g̦͕͙̠h̲̫̯̩̱t̗͉͚͚̲e̺͔̤̮r̪̲̟̱̭ ͔ba͎c̯k͉̗͖
̭̠̣͍
̜I̗̜ ̰̼̳̥̻̙̹w̳͕̞͚̭̠a̟̠͍̲̦̜̝n̯͖̹̙̦̝̝t͚̙̙ ̦͎͈h͈e̜͚r̯̰͇̦̝,̠̖̞
̪̖̼͈s̫̜he͖ ̣̹w̥a̘̱̯̯s̗ͅ ̤̯͇̖ṣ̩we̱̭̦̭̜̩ͅe̟̩̳͙̝ͅt̪ ̖͇̱̳̪a̲͕̝͈n̠̺̲̬ͅd͚͕̫̪̘̳͇
̞͎͓̣͚̝͚ ̮̜̖ ̩̦̹̞̫̼͈ ̻̠̮̠ ̜̠̼̹͍͍͕k̰͖i̜n͇d̖̦
̥̟̼͇̮ḁ͖̤͓͇͖ͅn̳͉̱̹͕̰̗d̪̻̮̰
͇̜͚̜̮͓̥ ̜͈̭̘͔ ̞n͉͙o͕͔̦͈t̙̯̻̭̱̝ ͖͓̙l̮̳̣͙̞̙i͉͖̱͍͚̥̠ke̖ ̗̩͎̤̪y͖͇̼̯ou̗̬
͖̙̱͓̯̰I̹̺̗̻̼̲̫ ͕͕w̰̳̥̜a͚̯n̩t ̩̺̥͖̤̘h͖͉͖e̖̳͈͙͕̬r̝͓͖ ͇̻̱̖̝b̩a͔̻͇ck̺


I'll send a missive
a parcel, haplessly packaged
by these bumbling, cloddy digits

fill it with frailties
objet d'art of mine
my careful reminiscence

de anima
I will slice
like slivers of gold

pour in my intellect
places, names, things, phrases
I was sure I would forget

I'll synopsize my soul

throw it in a box,
carted off and off

until I'm set on the doorstep
an ogle and a gaze-in
at my what and whatnot

no return address
Oct 2018 · 1.4k
quantum entanglement
touka Oct 2018
tonight,
my shadow settles
in a different corner of the world

and his obscures me
content to hang on my frame
shielding any light from my eyes

faith's grievance -
the gravest sin I'd commit
salt to skin

faith's only albatross -
the bits of faith I'd toss
like Ms. Greenwood's dress
into the darkest parts of New York

like I think of my name
winking into the fixed abyss
indifferent to its prior disguise
when it does not leave the lungs enough

and on the height of my fuss,
inspiration flees
like a sour gust through the city at night
- a hint of death
a tinge of it on my hands

the void I fault for its expanse
promises to snarl his shadow from my shoulder
invites me into its limbo
desperately whines my title

it calls with little confidence,
but I linger to step in
flecks of gray interrupting the black
wafting,
purposeless black

will I?
will I live, wander the world's breadth
with the impetus of two dead legs

or will I become a cry of breath?

I flirt with two dooms,
swinging like a two-phase-moon;
stay, go, stay, go
weighing the whimper of my soul
against brain's drive to die alone
hope - he bends like a lion
like one does to drink
looks into the mirror of my face
he urges; he is thirsty
does so silently
well, I am the stream

who else will drink of me?

as if I am as still and quiet as some water
and I cannot beg access to his lips
for I've none of my own to part
Oct 2018 · 397
writer's block
touka Oct 2018
mist stretches along the tops of trees, bosoming coldly over the brush
like the bodies of lost souls

like the words that hang from the page
withering, wilting ghosts
that threaten to slither from their place
wobbling wraiths I'd traced;
my heart's yearn to spit its hopeless thought -
reduced to something like child scribbles,
like nonsense I'd etched with my non-dominant hand
with blithering, faltering pen

I swing like the moon between two phases
sure, unsure
how long will I sit here?
a few lunations scramble past my head
words on words on words
blend together in sequences of lines
that I no longer recognize
as anything close to cognizant

I read the lines again
dismantle, disassemble them
eyeful work;
like science sates its spirit
by prodding at the seams of the earth
no fear that it may unfix
the stars that string like stanchions in the sky
heaven's performance toppling

my words collapse before me
nothing more than a brief hiccup
before their quiet, noon oblivion
miscalculated blots that do nothing but spoil the purity of the page
I crinkle it, toss it behind me
grab a new sliver of square
uncrinkled, uninked
I stare into the ceaseless white
brinking, unblinking alabaster
immaculate - the center of nonexistence
so foreigning; a burgeoning sense of casuality within me

I remind myself that it is a piece of paper

but do I dare soil it?
ebony tweens from the pen as I press
callous deflowering;
assaulting the page with senseless drivel I will realise
five to ten seconds after I write it that I hate
what
Oct 2018 · 263
festinger's
touka Oct 2018
is it the hour of my knife?
am I fortunate, yet
for it to steady its hand,
hone its blade on my rib?
the worthy one,
from Adam's own cage

let me be ground back to dust
and tossed
like the two lovers from Eden,
blind in the draff of fresh sin

ah, I sweat
with this life on the wind
thrown out like the refuse
will I let live?
let my anger run loose?
uncurl the collar of death,
let it wild from its noose?

tomorrows worries suffice;
I am reckless, let me abound, and then
let the end strike me twice over! but, again,
life beckons me in --
as the light rages
against its own dimming,
I sweat

if to die is to live,
if it is...
my mothers testament;
the panegyric on death
×
don't leave, yet
Oct 2018 · 591
facultative love
touka Oct 2018
"it's between the world, or me."

I drop the gun at my feet,
drop to my knees

and the sun swallows the earth up.
Sep 2018 · 760
pneuma
touka Sep 2018
that
which is breathed,
and blown

well
do not exhale me a soul

exile me
to the cold

impinging
sinking, stinging
pity

no

be brief;
be terse

without a kindness to me

cast me off;
trade the scald
for the scoff

no mercy

leave

go, love
go and love
at the cost of me
destined, empty
linger, singing
like the limping thrush
caught under the cat tongue
of nicotine
numbing
throbbing
thrashing in the blood
Sep 2018 · 438
wilmington
touka Sep 2018
wind soughs outside
slightly

I'm up late tonight

my sister careens
on the eastern coast
touches Topsail
with her lacy fingers

and I cross mine

wheels and wheels
like lockstep men
march inland
automobiles whine
like soon, treelines

I'm up so late

my best friend dreams
in the wayside,
somewhere west of me
after a long day
of convincing her boyfriend
to high-tail his *** out of Raleigh
Clayton, it is
he decided
her fret only calmed enough to sleep
by his promises of a high-rise property
and below 70 mile wind speeds

I can feel my eyelids tug

my brother's fingers thrum
on countertops
well-wishes in morse
as he says he'll stop thinking about it, now
no, wait... now

and my mother works to bend
each emerging frown

as my fingers drum up natural disaster nonsense
I watch, wait for the earth's recompense
as it surely blares through my old house's fence

rippling through the silhouette of the statue
my sister's soul had attached itself to

every crevice of county road
every man-hiked piedmont mile
interstices of feet and snow
the dirt that has seen every trial
to fail under inclement weather

they say it's overdue
that it's been a while
dazzling or desolate
×
be safe out there, please
Sep 2018 · 252
cacoëthes
touka Sep 2018
in mid-augusts breadth
the last gasps of doomed stars

like lions lacking breath

he is watching
as history repeats itself;
damns itself

the solipsist; the progeny
who cries under his mother's wing

the exodist
to exist
unfortunately, in shortage of sleep

where asphodels crouch
long cut from life's thicket
free from time's gouge
painless, from the thick of it

cast into tartaros
on the cape of ouranos

to fall from his ipseity
so long was serendipity

his father's testament;
the panegyric on death

his debt, his deficit
of what he is bereft

summer feet cross the border
to touch the winter sleet in its corner

and skin meets skin
the solipsist's gravest sin;
the sophist, where he sits,
sips on the blood of collision

more sure of "self"
than his mothers hands

the solipsist, to exist
in the shade of earth,
who inhibits
a pull, a push
×
leaves his soul above the room
Sep 2018 · 199
glasgow
touka Sep 2018
she said
"when you talk, none of it registers"
then, anemone and vetiver
the scent as my center stirred

so, my head spins while she sleeps
and my mouth moves, but it's not me
the last time I'd tried to leave –

all the fear I'd felt
the hand that I'd been dealt

when next summer sheds the coming snow
will I then shed mine alone?

is it too much to ask
to know how much to ask for?
sewn into red string and corkboard

I only speak what I've heard before

existence seems dissonant
simple cause and effect
what else does heart implement
than its own discontent?
only wavers at others diffidence

some small part is legitimate
separate, insignificant

lends no ear to listen

sour milk
I spill and swim in
summer aestus
as kind as they've been
smiles, sharp
glasgow
sin

don't touch me

I am terrified I am different
of whatever I'm bereft
×
the exodist
to exist,
unfortunately
Sep 2018 · 166
pinehurst
touka Sep 2018
cold
sordid, alone

sour milk
I spill and swim in
summer aestus
as kind as they've been
smiles, sharp
glasgow
sin

don't touch me

the dream, gone
the deed, foreborne
the viceroy and its mimicry

wilt, milk thistle
to milkweed's thief
bloodflower
and antelope horns

strike the ear
of my fresh reprise
overwintered, ignorant

surely, somewhere, in the thick of it

the monarch swings
and the monarch strikes

two ends meet
for a sharp excise

galvanize the girl to grow
let whatever you speak stoke

paltering
preying
perusing me
of whatever deficit
×
hammers
to the black vein
Sep 2018 · 198
claire
touka Sep 2018
light pools in-between buildings
and she eyes the arches of morning through the blinds
sharp white through concrete divides

summer has lasted quite a while
or has it passed too fast?

anemone, daffodil, mid-august ebonies
terse and kind replies from well-trained staff

flags creep down, half-mast
crawling, as if there is shame somewhere

I can only hope
for hope
to ease some of the fear

prophetic, dread
candlelight or medicine
oxygen and antigens

but I've come in like a gust
something soft and raging

for now, it is enough
doors close
on mid-spring
and its balmy pinks
but there's another door ajar
×
I read something I really didn't expect to tonight? Claire Wineland died.
I loved her. I love her. I love her family for doing absolutely everything they could for her her whole life. I hope even bigger things are still in store for her, wherever she is. And I hope even bigger things are in store for the things she had in place in this world.
×
finished, unfinished
as it is
it's business
Jul 2018 · 388
synnecrosis
touka Jul 2018
seven poltergeists
in seven homes
inopportune
the world and its coasts

and when the tide rolls in alone
will you be there?

a nightless time
a moonless month
sleepless, smiling

watch fear run
with its tail between its legs
when the sirens wail
when hell's lid is popped

you'll be there
honeymooning,
swooning

stay, then
sway your life away

let the ghosts haunt your home
pull the fragile waist
of your misfortune close
take the dance
by its pensive hands

it is a parasite
and you are a gracious host for it

fresh, lockstep
pseudo-symbiotism

I know no one would ever tell you otherwise.
stay
even still, so convinced
viperous, writhing
eat the fruit
never touch something so sweet again
Jul 2018 · 888
coffeepot
touka Jul 2018
red wine beads at my brow
I wait to wince

poppies dance out in the yard
in the little warmth from seasons since

her feet trail away
the broken magnum at mine

head, heat, blaring haze
scythes at the atlas of my spine

scorn and disgrace
raw and insipid

the sun turns its face
lends whatever light to the wicked

she said she'd put the fear of god in me
but god is not what I fear

not what oppresses my feet
nor the ache of my best years

he does not hang from her tongue
like the prize of her spiced ***

any vestige of will; any spirit, any trace
for any iota of refrain

quashed, quelled
concealed and contained

another fickle whine
another fleeting wish

any mistake I've made is mine
and hers are carried on the wind

she speaks like the end;
the war, and then what's won

no more sour a tend
than to the wounds of what's been done

the world armed to defend;
her foes a heavy sword against a throng so young

infantile infantry
ripened from infancy

what a weapon are my sons

what a kindness she's coughed up
you never are who you think you are for very long –
at least, in my experience.
×
a bus ticket and a brain
Jul 2018 · 733
preta
touka Jul 2018
younger than me
sweeter than I could ever be

what is more lonesome
than the youth
that drags its own wings through the dirt?
what else would I have done?

I've watched hope spring
time and time again
cling its moist roots
to arid land

somehow

as infertile a wild;
some auspice offered
to skin softer than mine

what I'd lost
before they'd begun to gain
bucks buried in the halogen
of the world ahead

and what small sorrow it crows for yet
like a father's shaking hands
before I knew what trembling was

or what such a shaken man begets

or life along the highway line
another cry carried on the air
threatened like road-wandering swine
a frightened feral

what is more uncaring
than childhood fancy –
what is more forgetful of me?

how abrupt has it been
and then to end in collision
flame spiraling, firing off its hot spittle –
the youngest of the few

never quite young enough
"my children left on a cold night
my husband said it's how things go
like rabbits blinded by the light
kids want a better place to grow"
Jun 2018 · 1.5k
interim
touka Jun 2018
the wind is drunk on its liquor

a subtle slurring

lilies stir on the lilt of its voice

as harsh a requitement
again, I find no respite

as lithe as the life
in those ever-rearing gold rows of wheat

mistral born, on the rise
like prying eyes

I am thrown
into some tumult,
where some enemy rages on
shakes his staff against the cold

where the lighter chaff is tossed
toward the salt that laps the sand
on the sweet breath of its benthos

I am withering
but the wind blows on

whiles along –
drones its tepid mourning song
springs the dew
from its calloused palms

I am thrown
as sure of war
as trees will shed and flourish
and shed and flourish
in seasons to and fro'
freshly disowned
by the earth and its shoulder

a carapace of autumn's
exhumed again
it seems so easy for trouble to find me
Jun 2018 · 1.3k
epimetheus
touka Jun 2018
she says I'm too young,
but sadness manifests the same
so I place my broken jaw
back into its broken place

a modern epimetheus
dragging my prudence by the reins
confronted with the trouble that'd been steeping
for years on the fire

and like the ferris wheel that spun every summer
that I lost interest in
as I sloughed more and more of my childhood skin

I look off into the fog, salt and sand
'n the moon perched so highly,
a king in the sky
sending off its armed stars to cut through the night

****** from this nonage fantasy
by the bitter taste of tobacco in my mouth

maybe I can't love anyone

not yet
Jun 2018 · 314
candlemoth
touka Jun 2018
it heralds something
like the men that hike the piedmont, there

like one hundred and forty five moons
and you're stubborn, yet

it is a catalyst

like the curve of that road
like tapping on the sill

born in the heat
and tossed into the chill

and you're stubborn, still

patient for summer
so stubborn, still

you'll wait for the warmth
aching in the outfields
for the fire to spread
and carry you off
with its soot soiled hands
"there's a house on a hill,
and the moon is quiet, still"
×
crimson arches,
poplar springs rd
Jun 2018 · 1.2k
maravillosa
touka Jun 2018
weak-kneed,
heavy-eyed,
stumbling

I push through the thicket
to the patch of land
where the air is thick
with burnt pine and turmeric
to where the moon sets
spry on the water

I take my legs
and offer them to the strait
my plunge
into the euripus

what use are they
if not to walk
to the nape of hope's neck?

well, then
it is this
I am whelmed
carried off by the cold swell
of adam's ale

then, somewhere
along the river
and its rushing stupor

I hear singing
a voice that rings like clinkstone
and the ecclesiast begins to pull me
a quiet accompaniment
careful quiet, in the night –
such is thievery

subtle, without much grief
take me

for whatever gold I am
whatever glimmer that I could give
burnished of whatever sin
Apr 2018 · 367
hydra
touka Apr 2018
the ticking
of my orrery
douse the sun
its rise and clutch
exscind what skin it might have touched

like clockwork,
I whisper

like clockwork
as Jupiter bumps the earth
the orrery whispers in its corner

like clockwork, ticking

my soul's in the city
somewhere,
patiently sitting

I bite my tongue
hold my breath
let the anger fill my lungs instead
like anodyne inside my chest

a sea of concrete
somewhere,
singing, seeking

conjuring
and conjuring
but the moon wakes to sleep
and not much else
creeps
between the sun and the hour hand

surely

I'm buried
in the barathrum
locusts, wild honey
where the clove
is over-running

somewhere,
long removed from me
a wraith, a ghost
above the wings
my soul sits
and sings
and sleeps

like clockwork
I wait for its return
a heartless husk in the ground
the ticking
as my orrery sounds
days too deep, crows or keys
Apr 2018 · 407
white knuckle
touka Apr 2018
windows open in winter
lonely, hiemal caress

I feel my veins curl
wilt like pulled ribbon

they cramp under the muscle
cold stifling the crimson

the blood collects in my cheeks
pools there; potent, pressing

but he brandishes the pain –
I watch him thrash the world
off of the hems of his cuffs

offer a fist to his cries

I watch him dance around his ills
like they are open flame around his feet

bold, loudmouth
his thoughts bounce right from the brim
of his broken lips
with no caution; it is to the wind

only a fool could be so confident
"we have set these tears flowing for all time, in you,
and they'll always have sufficient reason to fall."
Apr 2018 · 478
disomus
touka Apr 2018
a few words to
knock my mandible loose
I set it back into place;
she can be sure
my ears are ripe to listen

her nails grew
in her rearing days
clamantly
clawing
'til quiet is connate to me

condign, burke
a silent sting

spoil, spoil, spoil
spare the rod
save a disparate word
and you turn to strike the wind from me with it

snag my heart
on something keen
rip it from my filthy sleeve

cosset my mother when she cries
bleed my wounds to quell her whine
I could never spill enough
to sate that empty barathrum

just waits to lay me in her snare
lets the bile sleep on the tip of her tongue
best to burn the skin that's young

upheave and hurl my cares around
would I wait for your sorrow?
for your penitence?
I long for it
but it would be swallowed up before the moon could set.
grief creeps in on me
like the morning
Apr 2018 · 261
hungry
touka Apr 2018
with a broken jaw
and a broken spine

he tries to tame the gnawing
unhinged, colubrine

he claws for claret, cherry blood
sloughs his futile, far loves
sinks his teeth into the silt mud

swiping bugs from widows web-spin
perhaps I'd never reach my anthesis
perhaps I'd never shed my dead skin

like he crawls along the leaves
all the rest crawls from his sleep
in late hours
he thinks of me
"I've always had a broken spine."
hungry, hungry, hungry
Mar 2018 · 388
daniel
touka Mar 2018
he speaks to me
like there is danger somewhere
the morose tone in his voice

the echo through the lanai
a soft sillage after he leaves

I stand until the morning weeps
my hands hang, so daring
over the dew drenched brow
of the balcony

the sun rises
not enough for warmth
it sits low in the sky
cold, creeping slow

what are you waiting for?
will you just sleep there
on the mantle of your unfinished sky?
sated, spoiled
dumb to your devoir
assoil yourself
you are a doomed star
rise, already
so that you can set sometime
I wonder if I'll ever meet him on the ground below.
Mar 2018 · 400
orion
touka Mar 2018
staid,
so sober
tossing pages
closed on clover
sank for a sennight

cream
and green
and white
and red
like spring cloudburst on her head
from stride
to sulk
to sleep
to cry
clutch, cradle and cast the die

******,
sleeping, sneaking sot
windswept, waifish
closed on clover kept to rot
fold for a fortnight

fix a thousand paper cranes
taking pains until it wanes

cream,
and green
and pallor,
plum
forswears all her working numbs
from sink
to sink
to cough
and cry
contemplates with vacant eyes
the stars above, where they reside
and when they dawn, their bright visage
where could the glimmer be
"but why are orion and the other stars rushing to leave the sky, and why does night contract its course?

why does bright day, presaged by the morning star,
lift its radiance more swiftly from the ocean waves?

am I wrong, or did weapons clash? I’m not – they clashed.
mars comes, giving the sign for war."
Mar 2018 · 358
planetarium
touka Mar 2018
a blip
on a blight
on a mote
on a microbe
a sea of stardust
black silk
and white rope

hung
above her head
passing, people start to pour in
and limbs hang like they're dead
tingle with their poor sin

a bead
on a brow
on a cry
quiet mystery
a blip
on a blight
on a brick
in the wall

phase
the night, the numbs a haze
the sounds, the stars that scattered
how far she'd had the ache
how slight, the rings of saturn

a haste
on a heart
to calm it down
a push, a pull
to soak it in
the art around

so small, then
regret sets in
the song in the room
and the ghost let in
long that one would leave it soon

a pulse,
a parse
and a hubric hope
tense,
tingling, the sinking *****
sinks into
the stars around
"it's all a blur, happened way too fast
but I'm glad that it's what we had"
Mar 2018 · 415
à huis clos
touka Mar 2018
I am prone

kicking the door
banging, beating on the hollow wood

the nerve, I need

it hits heavy, it hits hard
like my hand hits the abused oak

but not enough alone

maybe angry, desperate fist
no answer cares to call to me

clawing til I crawl to sleep

prone, and cold

forget that shame is mine to own
forget that knobs ******* under me

push the luck I've so far escaped
push myself against the frame

prone
wipe the rain that drips from my brow
prone to cold
raise a storm to blow it down
still knocking, still knocking.
Mar 2018 · 346
small keys
touka Mar 2018
I find myself

in improvised dances
to songs that scratch at the shadows
of songs before them

I find myself

in blue light that flickers
wavers by the bedside
sends out a sharp, musical sound
just when I feel it's gotten too quiet

I find myself

in colors, complementary
proud on the screen
flashing expertly in the heart of a scene

and I find myself

in the stories of people who are lost
who cannot find themselves
who jut out from their imposed pages
drenched, pouring the thick ink
that makes up the prose
of their pain and passion

so, I find myself

in silly, stealing, fleeting things
in things that time will wear, eat and tear
in pages, in notes, in shared thoughts and vibrant colors
but in each new finite, fictional summer
I find myself there
in its sugar-coated, sweetened care
how I'd love to tie my life up with
bareness, raw knuckles and fists
in a brawl that teases its brevity
and once it's won, maybe a true love kiss
tie it into a neatly knotted bow
and sign the end page with an authors flourish
Feb 2018 · 156
winston-salem
touka Feb 2018
ice collects around the window

I collect myself, collect my things

pick at the threads hanging from my clothing

on the way back through these heavy-eyed roads

batting my lashes at its sopitive sounds

patiently thrumming strings

waiting for patience to part with me

again

I possess myself

hang from the height of this parting breeze

no doubt that if it's picked me up, it will set me down

and someone from the passenger seat

exchanges a pithy parting glance

again

I possess myself

maybe somewhere unknown

I collect myself, collect strewn things

possess myself to collect dust

and feel it like small bugs stalking up my spine

as the bustle and buckle of the beltway

buzzes and rattles where my back touches the seat

breath fights me for its own space

again

I possess myself, remind myself

it rains somewhere, it's a different time somewhere –
someone, somewhere
pops the top off of their wine,
resigned to the sticky spill of its cherry scent,
drinks it alone and sinks into their dulled senses
possesses themselves to make it their last bottle,
patient for their parting sigh

someone, somewhere else,
pops the top off of their wine
giddy at the squeak and snap,
heart fluttering at the cherry scent
as it bubbles over the lip of the bottle
they present it to their lover
in two carefully poured glasses
patient in their honeymoon sigh

someone, I'm sure
stakes the highway line
somewhere,
maybe not too far from this home of mine
collects their dust in a similar fashion
prone, picked up on a gust of passion
possesses the last small comfort yet to be robbed
in imagining the same system of cogs
that turn under the same cover of sky
and pulls from it a patient sigh
comfort in compathy
Feb 2018 · 338
spine
touka Feb 2018
my lover
fashioned from old dirt
and bones buried
broken and brittle in the earth
painted so sparingly in gold
she is chipping all of such a thin coat
my lover
would start to wither, watered wine
I take her pains, tithing my time
her scent as sycamore and pine
to cut the wormwood from her twine
I love her
I will be with her, if it's fine
Feb 2018 · 229
summer, spring
touka Feb 2018
I ask the summer breeze

that seeps around

my cold, uncaring cracks

to sit with me

stay in its place

to keep directing the dance

of busy, buzzing bees

to kiss me every year,

staying rightfully in its season

but to write me of warmth over the holiday

I ask it that its honey-drenched, honeysuckle-sweetened air

would be my valentine
spring, summer
they continue to rear their head
without a doubt, as sure as the sun sets
Feb 2018 · 159
fragile
touka Feb 2018
to bite the hand that feeds
flourishes the flowering
at the watering spring

the hand that wills away the cloud
and its cover of the sun

the hand that is sure that it will bring
and is more certain of this than anything
to bite until it bleeds,
runs dry of its demand

and is sure of its defeat,
and will not heal again

to gnaw on its sore tendons
til the bone is crippled, sanded dust
fragile, failing
fleeting and
feeding despite the wound
because it's sure it can
and if it can, it's sure it must
"there are times i almost think
i am not sure of what i absolutely know
very often find confusion
in conclusions i concluded long ago
in my head are many facts
that, as a student, i have studied to procure
in my head are many facts
of which i wish i was more certain i was sure"
Feb 2018 · 227
10/9/XXXX
touka Feb 2018
from what I know, most space breathes the same soft tone

the same still sigh

Jupiter's air is different
loud, thick and wet as the deluge pours heavy from forever storms

Mercury's is hot, dries my mouth and lends itself barren
only lives to whistle wind through the cracks of my ship

but the further I get out of this system of satellites
and the smoke-like facicles that bleed around my distant homes

the more stars collapse wearily into themselves

the more I see the bright, violent birth of hungry black holes

the more I realise I might truly be alone
he only let me ahead so he could step on my heels, [PAGE WARPED]
Feb 2018 · 128
terest
touka Feb 2018
the ground is all
but under my feet
and
i lose grip
on whatever tethers me

my breath
as a bitten, threadbare rope

still

prolonged to cling to connate hope

somewhere between old and new moon

in dark,
i linger
on my last swoon
sit somewhere sidereal
seething in its last touch feel

unsure of how to temper it
and how my want to decrements

still

i want to land on solid ground

and hope to hear a voice call out
as stars tangle above earth's crown
Feb 2018 · 448
cerebrum
touka Feb 2018
I sip, poor
on my nepenthe
stroking skin
the glass holding poured antidote
I sip and swoon, devote
I'd swim in it
even as it takes its pities
never part with the piment
the earth stills
slows its cities
and I take a sip of him
the warmest regrets
gnaw at my regard
cathartic, quiet egress
my minds reach not so far
as to want for them again
I sip, so poor
on my nepenthe
drink 'til it pours cold
it offers up its pities
pardon any sentiment
of the sorrow it erodes
it offers up a numb
I can't deny consoles
Jan 2018 · 281
atlas
touka Jan 2018
I fight off an atlas ache
I breathe in, it offers a twinge
I roll my shoulders

"what are you gonna say?"

my ribcage stiffens against the skin where it resides
my throat feels like I've never drank

"I dunno."

storm clouds somewhere surely hang
I'm sure they do, it's still so wet outside
petrichor lingers dense and sweet, clinging to the greenery

"this is important. you have to stand up to her."

not impatient, but not eager to waste any time
I'm not eager to waste hers
but mine matters less simply because it is mine

"man, I know."

but she asks for something I'm not sure I can give
if I was to give anything, it'd be my femur bones
here, take these, I don't use them anyhow
maybe you can use them to bat around your enemies

"it's important for you."

something swift and slick and discreet
slides past my lips

"ehhh."

a comedic groan, but still

its not just me, its the legacy.
I am just another mouth to feed
feed me like you've always been
an atlas ache, I'm breathing in
Jan 2018 · 198
pandora
touka Jan 2018
operose, to open rose
slaves to pull its petals down
the time it takes to bloom them out
a senecan stoic to peter his prose
to hide under its sharp thorned nose
pops the top till the flower pouts
dust to dust on its soil mound
Jan 2018 · 1.9k
maladaptation
touka Jan 2018
cold,

I will my eyes to focus
reprimand my dark surroundings
and the many failing lights that sit
just a few yards away
blurry, blue dots
that jut out from the soil
of my neighbors yard
some decoration, I suppose

wet,

I hear the past, present and future collide with a crash
with a few strong voices
who bargain for nothing more than an insight
into each others inevitability

cold,

light flickers back on behind me
and I could kiss it hello
potent and poignant,
I'm so glad you are breathing
maybe that's a little forward, but it's more than power
I still struggle to focus my sight
maybe my ears, however
quiet still could not fall if it had untied shoes

wet, and so cold it's become dull

the ground is malleable, mud and muck sloshing around my pathway
my feet toss the puddles of winter water up and around my ankles
it soaks into my socks
sends a chill that stalks the length of my spine

wet and cold

I meander through the murk, biding it away
I jump onto the sleek black surface, staving off the frigid pains
and lay my head down to hide from sight

my vision is full of black holes

it's lovely, the rain
but not when its best accompaniment is the long silhouette of the house you'd escaped
who would I tell
a few foggy figures latch onto my regard

cells collapse in on their own

my face grows warm and I feel my features contort
a sad scowl appropriate for the situation at hand
tears roar past the dam I'd crafted
but it was dark, no one would see
I was hiding under nightfall
which might sound cool if I didn't mean I was laying on top of an old car crying at 5 in the morning

reborn starving and unconsoled

I still hear a few voices, then a few footsteps that quicken
a pace, a parse, a prying for more
and then a collective quiet
I stiffen, stifle my woes

the bite and the cry as it corrodes the hull

numb creeps in around my skin
especially my feet, the extent of the cold finally settling in
but I wasn't ready

the bigger the bang, the brighter the star

I have a conversation with myself in my head
and not to come off loony
but there are a few things that shouldn't have been said by either parties involved
if you catch my drift

theory tugs at the strings in my heart

a soft gust of January wind strokes the bare skin of my legs
I wonder
I wonder if I could stop if I were to start
and so I wonder and wonder
but it seems the answer isn't quite so mysterious

paradigms practice their weight in the void

I bet an imaginary amount of some imaginary currency
to myself, of course
that if I wasn't able to before, I definitely won't be able to sleep now

the dance of matter and its taunting toy

I hear my name called, footsteps shuffling, offering their warn
a somewhat concerned voice from beyond the beyond
the front door, I mean
out of sight, I freeze, my mouth stuffed full of cotton
half hoping they'll forget I exist for a few
so I can try to compose myself

with the space around it as it threatens tall

however well I could compose myself at this point, anyway
I know I'll be found
I don't want to speak, I'm not sure if I could
when these things happened, my mouth tended to malfunction as much as my spine
so I'd bite my tongue and stand shrinking
my muscles curling into a shaken stir

saturn sleeps, its uninhabitable crawl

a warm blanket, I don't remember the color
I'm brought inside and laid down
and I avoid the hot remnants of some loud, leering summer
the air is thick with it

its air stings my skin, and I hear a song
  ‍    ‍
so this is the weirdest, longest and most intimate poem I've ever done. It also kind of deviates from my usual style
(the italics are a bit glitched out BC of hellopoetry so sorry for that)
Jan 2018 · 258
opprobriate
touka Jan 2018
struck me like sweet incense
of some storm of stardust
and by my doing, of old copper coins
the blood collected in his throat
the steely scent on his breath as it warped his voice
sent cold shrapnel through my tendons
I slipped and sank into the noise

I might miss having my heel stepped on
achilles exposed for far too long
sans the snake to snap at it
sans the sickle to scythe its hit
sans orpheus to ink an ode
sing it until his breathing slows

sing until his breathing slows
*tw* the flesh behind flayed pale skin, sprouting and spindling red, through and through, like sarcodes were made of him
Jan 2018 · 188
paprika
touka Jan 2018
a hurdle to jump, she parsed
to pass through a season
and leap unsoiled through its shedding
a haunt of hemingway's
to whine against another want
oh!
as spring clamors for its own warmth
maybe needless, but i would ask
to spend whatever time
with faint regard of whatever time
i'll see this one out
Jan 2018 · 527
new ache
touka Jan 2018
sleep hangs in the air over my head

until it bolts and breaks the steep drop
from the window down to the city below

where light swarms around the sprawl
brilliant enough to cut through the thick cover of night that settles over it at this time

argus eyes Newark as it refuses rest
turns up its nose at the inclination
struggles under the spread and smother of last phase
pearls its flare as a periapt

and loudens its whirs and sighs
from public transit and its smoking tires
as halogen headlights bleed well through highway treelines

so I'll stave off another tryst with sleep
whatever romance tossed to Jersey's smog-laden wind
city slickers
Dec 2017 · 263
sarcodes
touka Dec 2017
how nice it must be
to its silk as soot and sod
to sleep so with me
someday in a softer dream
Dec 2017 · 183
december 5th:
touka Dec 2017
i push through some dull ache
to finish my morning
stretch my muscles of their wake
press on my palms
to rid them of the throe, the throb
the flowerbed that thistle haunts
to warn other blooms against their wants
at least I know I can
Dec 2017 · 1.4k
december 4th:
touka Dec 2017
a mother cooing in tune with her son
elbows rested on the finished mahogany of his crib
as the fever broke through his onesie
like my night sweats
Dec 2017 · 134
lightheaded
touka Dec 2017
the subsets of his haunts
organized and packed away
tugged and pulled and pushed
like hefty parcels and
the tension in his fingertips
like the prickle and pop
of pins under and over and in his skin

and the subtle swell of dread
swirling in his stomach
from a nightmare he had the other night
the happenings in which he couldn't quite remember
but it bothered him more that he couldn't
perhaps if he could just remember
it would clue him in to the catalyst of the day
if his subconscious had predictive powers, that was.
but he felt like something not good was going to happen
and whenever he had that feeling–which was, ad nauseum–something not good usually, eventually transpired
and that was enough to let him know

like something trembling the equilibrium
in the labyrinth behind your ears
to pull him like his hefty parcels
left and right, side to side
the feeling would tug on him about his day
but he wouldn't change its course
"december's sweating, don't sweat it all
I'll dance with the dog paws or dance with the hogs"
Oct 2017 · 275
après tu
touka Oct 2017
shroud me in
his warm silhouette
do soften me still
to the tugs on the barrow
to the honeypot and rosa peace sitting
some too fragrant in the sill
to tendrils of queen anne's lace
silking up the wheel

lost in his travail
to his oil soiled clothing
and pearly white chrysanthemums
and lilies for my biding
when I might again
see him tinkering and typing

to oleander twining
'round the spine of his shade

to the sweet scent brewing in the kettle
so, soon his perennials
settle into themselves
coiled wire around their stems
to conserve his oeuvre fair and open on their shelves
so, if not much else, I might then keep them blooming well
Oct 2017 · 440
pangs
touka Oct 2017
as unlikely in love as

sand is not to toss under the wind

the southside is to sleep at night

stone is to soften against your head

as rain is to not be wet

but the stinging sensation
when you left
"the pain isn't real, just chemicals tellin' my brain how I ought to be"
Oct 2017 · 575
cloudburst
touka Oct 2017
and without much provocation
the cloud burst overhead, lent so weary to its own weight
the small boy froze, gripping the handle of someone else's umbrella so tightly that his knuckles turned white, quietly trying to assure himself that he could survive
until the rain would calm to a gentler drizzle
though, that was not the case as soon as imagined, as the heavy pour droned on amaranthine, despite best hopes and wishes, and the soft, shaken murmurs of a song pleading it to retire for... some indefinite amount of time
so he settled under a nearby storefront, sitting damp and cold,
biting his fingernails and tensing as he waited for the sobering flashes, the booming clacks of spring thunder that were sure to round the horizon as the storm made its way, and...
crash! bam!
he quickly lowered his head, recoiling and pulling his knees to his chest.
he supposed this was it, this was how he would die.
crash! bam!
he let out a low sob
and in a single moment, quite like the faint visions of life played out tauntingly in front of eyes in the moments just before death,
he recalled kicking his brother and making him cry
he recalled taking the juice box and not saying "thank you"
and he recalled affirming to his mom, after her rigid instruction, that, yes, he would be back before it would start to rain.
who used to be afraid of thunderstorms
Oct 2017 · 226
off
touka Oct 2017
off
an anticipation hit me
in dim lit periphery
a darker sky swathed out
over a sea
set off so tender
stroking the reef
white light hung so low
a wash of pale and navy
poured onto lush green
as he leaned in to kiss me

if the ******* could be so easy
if we were caught in such a dreamy scene
carried ashore by the cling
of his hands wandering
sailing with the sting
and like the hacking and the coughing
when out of lungs came pouring
every unsaid thing
sand soaking up the drippings


I was perched on the cliff side
sent to stoke some man's eye
took the body but not the mind
wracking the shell I sleep inside
to test the careen on different tides
air under feet as the moon hung high
bargained for a swift crack on the collide
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