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 7:19 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 3:26 PM UTC
i
hid with society's
fractured casualties
smoking joints & cigarettes
while their cracked lips
whispered flaccid whiskey truths.
these digital mystics sit
choreographing calligraphic lyrics
tweaking in rot-infested basements
of city-centred detention apartments.
i slum in these dens
in dreaded denial
of my deals with devils
& midnight merchants
who push highs at faustian prices...
drifting through the shadows
selling crystal-ball 8-balls
behind jazz clubs
dressed as fortune-telling gypsies
they stalk me
for a pound of flesh
while i wait at a dried-up dock
for a phantom ship
that sank a lifetime ago.
Mar 5
Mar 5, 2026 at 5:41 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 3
Mar 3, 2026 at 11:59 PM UTC
TWO ENGLISH POEMS For A Woman
I.
The useless dawn finds me in a deserted streetcorner; I have outlived the night.
Nights are proud waves: darkblue topheavy waves laden with all hues of deep spoil, laden with things unlikely and desirable.
Nights have a habit of mysterious gifts and refusals, of things half given away, half withheld, of joys with a dark hemisphere. Nights act that way, I tell you.
The surge, that night, left me the customary shreds and odd ends: some hated friends to chat with, music for dreams, and the smoking of bitter ashes. The things my hungry heart has no use for.
The big wave brought you.
Words, any words, your laughter; and you so lazily and incessantly beautiful. We talked and you have forgotten the words.
The shattering dawn finds me in a deserted street of my city.
Your profile turned away, the sounds that go to make your name, the lilt of your laughter: these are the illustrious toys you have left me.
I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and to the few stray stars of the dawn.
Your dark rich life…
I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile –that lonely, mocking smile your mirror knows.
II.
What can I hold you with?
I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the ragged suburbs.
I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon.
I offer you my ancestors, my dead men, the ghost that living men have honoured in marble: my father’s father killed in the frontier of Buenos Aires, two bullets through his lungs, bearded and dead, wrapped by his soldiers in the hide of a cow; my mother’s grandfather –just twentyfour- heading a charge of three hundred men in Perú, now ghosts on vanished horses.
I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness humour my life.
I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal.
I offer her that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow – the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.
I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born.
I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of yourself.
I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.
Mar 3
Mar 3, 2026 at 9:04 PM UTC
The cigarettes, the wine, the air that I breathe
all taste better when I'm with you,
The view of the skyline from my balcony;
is more picturesque alongside you too.
Feb 26
Feb 26, 2026 at 6:52 AM UTC
my safeword is ~ "harder"
I was born with a ruler in my fist.
Not to measure curtains or coffins,
but to press against the welt rising on my thigh
and whisper: there, that is real.
The world speaks too much in vapor.
Love you.
Trust me.
I didn’t mean it.
Cloud-words, steam escaping a mouth
that has already forgotten its own weather.
But pain,
pain is a red signature.
It does not revise itself.
I learned early:
what can be seen can be entered.
What can be entered can be known.
Bruise blooming like a slow violet gospel
beneath the skin’s pale altar.
I do not have to read between those lines.
Most people are riddles wrapped in perfume,
their wants moving like fish under black water.
They say kindness
but mean hunger.
They say forever
but mean until bored.
Their eyes flicker with small economies.
I grew tired of deciphering.
Tired of psychoanalysis in dim kitchens,
of tracing childhood ghosts in the curve of a smile.
The unconscious is a labyrinth
with no minotaur—
just mirrors breeding mirrors.
So I chose the clean arithmetic.
If you want my body,
say body.
If you want my knees,
say knees.
Use is a verb without metaphor.
It has weight.
It has duration.
It leaves marks I can catalog
like saints catalog relics.
Here: the wrist, faint band of rope-burn,
three centimeters.
Here: the shoulder, crescented teeth,
four small moons.
Proof of transaction.
No subtext.
In surrender there is a strange geometry.
A narrowing of variables.
A quieting of the terrible choir
of what-did-you-mean.
When I kneel,
I am not unraveling motives.
I am not excavating your mother’s grief
or your father’s silence.
I am not a detective of your damaged cathedral.
I am a surface.
I am sensation.
I am the measurable field.
And in that field
I exist without speculation.
Some call it self-destruction.
They prefer their illusions upholstered.
They prefer love that requires translation,
faith that requires footnotes.
But I have seen too many counterfeit halos.
Better the visible welt
than the invisible lie.
Better the contract of flesh
than the fog of intention.
When the palm descends
and the nerve-flare sings up my spine,
there,
is certainty.
Not romance.
Not destiny.
Not salvation.
Just impact.
Just contact.
Just this body answering to gravity.
And afterward,
alone,
I trace the swelling map of myself
as if I were both cartographer and country.
I press the tender place
and feel the sharp starburst.
Yes.
Still here.
Still real.
Feb 23
Feb 23, 2026 at 8:13 PM UTC