i
haunting memories ooze from my pores
condensing in the heavy atmosphere.
wave after wave of ethereal static
flashes behind my eyes
pulling me above the serene rot
& the
percussive
drumming of the downpour outside.
spellbound in a dizzy trance
i stare into the reflective looking glass
waiting for the stranger
in the mirror to blink
first.
ii
sitting in a creaky rocking chair
watching black-&-white russian films
on a bulky, box, console television.
the fork pronged, bunny-ear antenna
and massive
protruding knobs and buttons
distract me, bathing in the salt-&-pepper static.
i peer to the left. on the rusted windowsill on the other side,
four empty glass bottles stand:
two green, two
clear - filling up
with the buckets of pouring rain. outside,
horses graze in the flooded marsh -
their soaked manes
falling flat against heavy necks
lasso tied, with a noose fixed to fence posts.
I pity yet envy their nylon-chained fate.
in the fireplace
embers of a coal fire flicker. ashy smoke
dances with the dust
suspended in the grey light
cast by the CRT TV screen. an aggressive glow, haunting.
iii
braving eden on margate street
reading...
writing...
painting...
moving and existing
through tinted layers.
six shillings a week for the meek, begging
to eat anointed fruit & man-made vegetables. swept up
in a tornado of unaccustomed genius
i sit singing. my blues bleeding into latin grooves
moving me through the dissonance
of frowning echoes.
iv
[front page]
crisis after crisis,
screams the black ink.
**** it.
another hundred-and-eighty dead.
bombed for attending school -
but the other news said brown girls
don't even get to choose.
someone's lying,
or, more likely,
I've lost my mind.
> 2nd page
I don't know who is worse....
Noem, or Noam ¿¿¿
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 8:11 PM UTC
beads of sweat
trickle down the nook of her neck
glistening on soft curves of static skin
hot with electric pulse under gliding fingertips.
beads of pearls
wrapped around her wrists
glimmer in dancing reflections
from burning flickers of candlelight.
beads of wax
drip down her arched spine
glinting as quivering hips sway
writhing in the gentle shock of pleasurable pain.
***
diving into trenches of pleasure
in her intoxicating salty skin
where sweet treasure lies
confined inside the pouting shell
glowing through refracted moonlight.
my lips trace from her navel
sailing along hipbone silky swell
as pointing toes curl
& waves reach breaking peak
under firm strokes
to the nocturne's crescendo.
Mar 10
Mar 10, 2026 at 2:52 PM UTC
I saw you before the morning
took the edges off the world.
You were a question,
a half-drawn breath
in the corners of every room.
Your name was a bruise
I kept pressing at
in the hope it would turn gold.
Alchemy of self depravity...
I tried to measure you
with syllables,
with sleepless nights,
with the soft arithmetic of wanting.
But you were always too much or too little:
a truth that flickered
in and out of my hands
like a flame trying to speak.
I counted the minutes
as though love could be tallied
like ledger lines
in a ruined cathedral.
But you were
never present in the same ledger.
You were a footnote,
a rumor of light
beneath a door I could not open.
I gifted you my body,
my hunger,
my most ungovernable dawns,
you touched them
like one touches a wound
to see if it still bleeds.
I asked for a reflection,
just a mirror.
Not love, not reciprocity
just acknowledgment
that I was visible to you
beyond the margin of polite formality.
But you looked past me
as though I were a metaphor
too inconvenient
to make literal.
And so I carry you
like an open question:
a city at war with its own architecture,
with streets that lead
only to silence.
I have loved you
with the patience of ruin,
with the devotion of one who learns
to speak the language of ache.
But here is what remains
Beyond your face I see with eyes closed
Hoping to touch a mirage by setting myself alight
Just to prolong feeling 'you', in the weight of my pain.
The poem does not return.
The name does not come back.
Only this:
a body still reaching
toward something that never held it.
And in that reaching
I find my own pulse
defiant, unclaimed,
still loud enough
to drown out your quiet.
Feb 25
Feb 25, 2026 at 9:07 PM UTC
I've got a few hundred reasons why
We should get together,
Purely to spend a night
in each others company.
You wpuld have to ignore my blushing,
as I try to remember,
all of your places of pleasure...
and
while I drift into my minds cinema
simply to picture the sounds of delights
you once would whimper,
watching me trace my lips along
the outline of your defined collarbone,
down.down. my mouth moved south
your ******* and slowly down again...
ribs,
hips...
fixated on the object of our shared desire --
yes, that same treasure I've buried
in depths, where no amount of Psychology or hypnotherapy
Could ever uncover and unfuck the trauma found in my chests hollow cavity.
×××
I've got a few hundred reasons why
We should get together,
Purely to spend a night
in each others company.
Naturally our tendencies of stimulating
simulations where our insatiable,
instant gratification dependency
Will undoubtedly throw us into
a state of pure ecstasy.
One hundred reasons why
you should kiss me,
with the taste of your essence
all over my face.
Reading my ***** mind I'm these lines,
tell me,
do you feel your heartbeat quickening
do you enjoy the quivering
and the appropriately
inappropriatel pulsating, tingling
as your muscles rapidly, uncontrollably
begin contracting?
And still another one hundred reasons
to tell you that more amd more frequently
I spend nights in cold sweats
thinking about our drunken
pillow caged
knockout love tussling?
I have one hundred reasons
and one hundred more...
I feel confidently
desperately unsure
That I would ever convice you
to even consider
spending the night alongside me
and my reasons by the thousands.
But if you ever did, or do,
I'm confidently sure
that you would end up staying one more
after it all.
And from there,
I confidently believe that those nights
would be repeated indefinitely
as we find ourselves
facing daily reminders
"why".
recurring like clockwork
they'll surface
hundreds and hundreds ,
maybe / probably
more..
Today we might say its natural that we fell out of touch
While we pluck answers
from out of touch blog articles and astrologically lost , non-renewable pseudo-sources.
One hundred days ago
I said goodbye
And every single day
Since
I've had to lie
"Pretend that I'm fine."
One hundred nights
spent missing how your mind would arouse me
Until your body doused the flames
Sparked by the paradoxically fire-fighting
goddess gifted with ungodly pyrotechnically
arsonist abilities.
One hundred reasons why this letter is a mess and one I'm sure enough to confidently admit I'll regret more intensely by the day without response or replies.
But more than pride and all the rest...
One thousand reasons why I would never forgive myself if I didn't try, this time (and maybe one hundred more).
I've got no reason to love, and hundreds why I'd be better off not to.
Yet lovee exists in transcendence, a place without reason or reasons, which above all
is the reason for my hundreds of reasons.
Ps, I'm posting this letter because the blue ticks and read receipts would **** me.
If you never write back, I'll spend a lifetime cursing the postal service which failed me,
and thereby fated me to a lonely (postman hating) destiny.
X
Feb 1
Feb 1, 2026 at 4:39 PM UTC
Eight thousand puzzle-piece
butterflies
fill the memory carded banks
of discarded blank
cyberspace Alzheimers.
An empty room with silhouetted views,
creating illusion imitating
hallucinations
of a promise to reinstall the words lost
to safety proof
false parachutes.
Without canvas-sized,
indestructible evidence
or ink-based remembrance -
only erasable by flames,
flood or
unsigned credentials
fallen hand in glove
into
overenthusiastic forgetfulness.
there remains to be seen
a virus immune to tonic,
vaccine,
or innocent naive dreams
capable of murdering,
erasing,
and deleting every letter
conceived by keyboard *************
Here sits a love sick ******
with his head in the clouds
which would rain purple-hazed
words on the handful around;
those who remain concrete laced
flat on the ground in silence
while the sky promises rain -
yet only delivers clouds thundering sounds
of yesterday's romantic morose cries.
The dreams and visions of publicized ambition
dead
to files of hard-drive suicide -
by pornographic escapism,
prism-shaped with temporary reflection
of a soul due to expire.
Teadless and tired
in need of eternal service with supervision
by technology and savvy technicians -
mechanics of the afterlife,
while sighs of a Leonard Cohen existence
drown out the cries
of a bad cup of immortality.
Red-eyed mornings with deleted history
control-shift-n
and go go incognito
of a different kind.
free of decision or any conscious mind -
without a driver at the wheel
deciding the turns,
for any burning yearning sensation to stay,
go, hop-off and arrive.
The destination won't be seen alive.
Even as stains of lead will remain after death
with every orchestrated fable and tale
told by its grey-eyed author immortal,
while multidimensional gurus of ancient fires have stories and songs
done wrong by sins
of broken-telephone
though burning in hearts, souls,
and every orifice available to spark -
still end up with the scent of unholy ****
The blank void of all memory is all that remains
throughout every special momentous occasion with hard-copy refection
or recollection of that holy time and spiritual place -
I await judgement and punishment
or divine rejection,
for falling in love and forgetting to save.
Feb 1
Feb 1, 2026 at 3:19 PM UTC