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
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 8:22 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.
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 8:22 PM UTC
Contemplating ************
I lie on my crookedly back
on a lumpy mattress
with curves in all the wrong places,
studying the ceiling’s hairline fractures
as though they were maps
(anywhere, but here)
speed bump city
crawling with untarred roads
leading nowhere, anyway.
hopelessness fills the spaces in between
alleys fermenting in their own neglect,
and cemeteries meet parks, overlapping
seeded with broken glass
where children once rehearsed futures.
junkie-slop spray-painted bridges
slump,
over lifeless, macroplastic
polluted rivers
which carry industrial excrement
bubbling, past jetty beams
surrendering to rot.
The city decomposes all around me,
above me, below my feet and yet
Worst of all,
death lives within me.
A cigarette hangs from my mouth
its ember a minor sunrise.
small things are big in a world of defeat...
my mind dances
with every deep inhalation,
as sparks perform their brief ballet
then vanish as if rehearsed.
Sirens stitch the distance.
Dogs growl at the invisible danger
lurking at every corner in this town.
Bins rattle like an embodiment of the anxious conscience.
Somewhere, an ambulance [tragically]
edits and prolongs a life.
Disharmony harbors inside these walls
all the same,
acting as conductor to the choir of braintot vices and the ever persistent
peace disruptor clock
(they never stop)
tick,
tock
tick,
tock...
small metronomes
with a destructive appetite.
My mindmaps catalogue the abandoned districts
of my own interior:
bridges never crossed,
letters unsent,
texts ghosted,
ambitions weathered down
to bottom of the can, faded graffiti.
Desire does not announce itself
with trumpets.
It arrives like municipal decay -
quiet,
inevitable,
functional.
inconveniently,
the ceiling does not answer.
the night does not intervene.
the city continues its indifferent pulse.
There are roads one repairs.
There are roads one avoids.
and there are roads
that circle back
around the neck, and back
to the body.
in an overflowing ashtray
i extinguish the cigarette.
the dancing is done.
and the all consuming room waits,
closing in.
Hmm.
I should **********
Mar 11
Mar 11, 2026 at 8:22 PM UTC
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 8:19 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 10:38 PM UTC
i.
on the eve of the beginning
we swam in the vast nothingness of an eternal now
spellbound in the sea of retrograde amnesia
born into a plague
& primed by spacetime abstractions
ripped out of childlike purity
& morphed into a disfigured automaton species
stalking the asphalt planes of the panopticon
with heads hung by the burden of dim lit distractions
tailored for the livestock subscribed
to the web shaped shackles
at the foot of life's lonely mountain
the summit appears to rise & disappear
unscalable the snowcaps melts into the heavens
ii.
18 years of mapping the blank trackless pages
in my own odyssey
- a journey of expanding cartography
in the desolate wilderness of poetry & 21st century philosophy
- beyond the walls & platonic disfigured forms
my scourge is housebound
periodic slants in discourtesy by my menage
- in between motherly love & a motherly nudge
i'm half-shoved from my novel-aspiration-shaped nest
being served batch after batch of freshly baked
best-interest flavored advice
"join ben-dod in the finance game"
before reluctantly accepting with a patronizing
"im yirtzeh hashem".
a classic case of family tree suffering -
struck by a bout of root rot.
deep sigh in
mantra
slow sigh out
{mechanical cogs act as dials
on the dashboard of perception
yet the observer lies unbound
in the realm of the transcendental}
iii.
starring out the window
watching birds flutter in a mating dance
my gaze
collapses
drifting out of the frame & into an internal debate
to which i'm a spectator?
are we three, i wonder...
both participant(s) & mediator in the puzzling di(tri)alogue
centered on 'for' & 'against' a trip to the barber for a haircut
while the voices ramble on inside my fragmented mind
i let my attention step outside
taking flight with the ***** dancing budgies
running my hand though my hair
turning cold
what if i start balding?
on a seesaw swaying from
'greatest hit haircuts' highlight reels
to visions of the shiniest chrome dome in the city
lost...
blooming sunny weather
lost...
iv.
both long-hand & short-hand
revolve in an infinite circuit
high-brow & low-brow
hands all pointed at the gyrating face
who is the author of my dreams
& he who visits me when i am engulfed
by the busy swarm of creativity
mystical genie who appears from his cave
shaping syllables & words
out of the buzzing humdrum
clear as black ink on a white page...
it streams out of my hand
at a rate which i cling to
as i am whisked through
that flower garden of poetry
v.
Q. answer Fermi's paradox ::
~ we are the aliens
Mar 5
Mar 5, 2026 at 9:23 PM UTC
(i)
a satellite bridge made of bones
hangs over the cosmic ocean,
there we sit, skipping stones
reading parables of fish and loaves,
castaways, adrift a depleted ocean.
memories of fresh water and wine
in an age of salinity, facing eternal drought
in tidal synchronization
geometric oscillation, puzzle-piece limbs
stride hypnotized, in metronomic fashion
our seamless spikes and curves collide
inside-in, inside-out.
at first, my tentative, trembling tentacles
could only pluck petals,
now I harvest flowers in full bloom
while pruning your flowerbed in gardens among foxes
above your throne are mirrors of distortion,
****** skin retouched with gothic tattoo reflections
a shrine of mongoose skulls forms the frame of that strange looking-glass.
(ii)
she stellifies above rubble jenga
he stargazes from a fools tower
(would-be) king and (dowager) queen
of supernova kingdom
(iii)
dandelion narcolepsy spreads
like rice fields in monsoon season
ceremonius ritual like a cryptogram deciphered,
the artist of symbolic seduction
navigates and unwinds her corset,
santa maria arrival, the destination: ******* divine
hands juggle with ease
of seasoned trapeze expertise,
rhythm of a bluesman at crossroads
strumming, and sliding along
a fretboard spine
×××
she is forever
endless and enrobed
in sailor made knots
and tailormade ink blots
closed galactic streets meet
in a runway solstice
there,
i will kiss her feet
Mar 4
Mar 4, 2026 at 2:58 PM UTC