SummerBlues - Hello Poetry

i don’t write poetries. I don’t know how to. I just write lines of trauma, spelling family.

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Jun 14, 2024

Jun 14, 2024 at 7:43 AM UTC

SummerBlues

Untitled

i don’t write poetries. I don’t know how to. I just write lines of trauma, spelling family.

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in time alone we grew relentless, sleepless, piecing together dream theories on why life must slumber and dreams conquer you who tried to resurrect dead moons and stars who looked at the sun in his face who shed feathers from your loneliness who pierced your own wings and fell like comets kissing earth, stuff of dreams and religions golden staples you liked your tea minimally sweet and painted colors underneath your dark circles primitive, of earth, your deification rite divine darkness churning on, you saw a feminine shape drawing back a youthful veil, a thousand pairs of eyes peered into a couple thousand years of void iridescent marble gaze, beautiful and alien colorless, but for a splash of red lips that held the universe in a needle-like balance sweet as a ripe fruit drooling barred the galleries of your mind ever so gentle, the midnight raven tore at the dove’s throat visions of an apocalypse we idly gamble on you who never came back who went on a path of dark suits and diamonds soared through milky ways and emerged from afternoon foliage lost your way, circled back and gone

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May 15, 2024

May 15, 2024 at 1:31 AM UTC

SummerBlues

on dreams and sleep

in time alone we grew relentless, sleepless, piecing together dream theories on why life must slumber and dreams conquer you who tried to resurrect dead moons and stars who looked at the sun in his face who shed feathers from your loneliness who pierced your own wings and fell like comets kissing earth, stuff of dreams and religions golden staples you liked your tea minimally sweet and painted colors underneath your dark circles primitive, of earth, your deification rite divine darkness churning on, you saw a feminine shape drawing back a youthful veil, a thousand pairs of eyes peered into a couple thousand years of void iridescent marble gaze, beautiful and alien colorless, but for a splash of red lips that held the universe in a needle-like balance sweet as a ripe fruit drooling barred the galleries of your mind ever so gentle, the midnight raven tore at the dove’s throat visions of an apocalypse we idly gamble on you who never came back who went on a path of dark suits and diamonds soared through milky ways and emerged from afternoon foliage lost your way, circled back and gone

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silhouette of sails breezed through the twilight hour, the working man was long aroused from his sleep, long strips of inked paper billowed out into the dank alley, infused with the rotten aroma of yesterday. the paper-thin veil draped over the construction site, the working men had their silhouettes enslaved to the sheet, an arrow of shadow shot through the muted screen of the cinema, a line of laundry zigzagged the sky overhead, ********** pages of blue, the rickshaw man was crossing stairs, toeing winding train tracks, children nimbly dashed past danger a fisherman was dreaming of secret deluges, he would oar his way through the overflown streets, catching a dim sum box or two a seagull fixed its hungry gaze on you, chewing stick you leaned on the cart you have been pushing, facing habour

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Jul 27, 2022

Jul 27, 2022 at 2:22 PM UTC

SummerBlues

Old Hong Kong

silhouette of sails breezed through the twilight hour, the working man was long aroused from his sleep, long strips of inked paper billowed out into the dank alley, infused with the rotten aroma of yesterday. the paper-thin veil draped over the construction site, the working men had their silhouettes enslaved to the sheet, an arrow of shadow shot through the muted screen of the cinema, a line of laundry zigzagged the sky overhead, ********** pages of blue, the rickshaw man was crossing stairs, toeing winding train tracks, children nimbly dashed past danger a fisherman was dreaming of secret deluges, he would oar his way through the overflown streets, catching a dim sum box or two a seagull fixed its hungry gaze on you, chewing stick you leaned on the cart you have been pushing, facing habour

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insomniac tangible darkness let me take a picture of you paint you on the wall scribble your name on waters in your naked form bend you, so no one else knows you but me, alone insomniac darkness — tell me my muse, let me taste you, bewildering, like arrows in disarray and white birds surreal as falling seraphs and forked tongues moist darkness what is sulking inside you must submerge with manta rays hemmed in circles long ago curled horns probing, testing bygones, frozen dawn condensing my azure dreams ashore

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Jul 4, 2021

Jul 4, 2021 at 3:08 PM UTC

SummerBlues

insomniac

insomniac tangible darkness let me take a picture of you paint you on the wall scribble your name on waters in your naked form bend you, so no one else knows you but me, alone insomniac darkness — tell me my muse, let me taste you, bewildering, like arrows in disarray and white birds surreal as falling seraphs and forked tongues moist darkness what is sulking inside you must submerge with manta rays hemmed in circles long ago curled horns probing, testing bygones, frozen dawn condensing my azure dreams ashore

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Stranger to earth, to her body, to the church. I often wondered how she could remain stoic as her blood licked the grass blades at our feet, the moth falling with her finger, drowning with my grief into the ring of fire. How far can one go, she asked me, to live without participating in the circus, to resist clowns, to not register pain, family, injustice, rain. Look, I said, they endure, the sound, the visuals, the memory – episodic, yes, but they endure – people would not forgive bystander. The moth fell again, shuddering, struggling. And her finger, gushing with golden blood, was still pointing at the priestess, who smiled, and said, you decide, it’s your body. To sequester, draw a line on the snow, better with blood, but tears would suffice too – and so the stranger was repeatedly created and destroyed.

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Jun 11, 2021

Jun 11, 2021 at 5:49 AM UTC

SummerBlues

Stranger

Stranger to earth, to her body, to the church. I often wondered how she could remain stoic as her blood licked the grass blades at our feet, the moth falling with her finger, drowning with my grief into the ring of fire. How far can one go, she asked me, to live without participating in the circus, to resist clowns, to not register pain, family, injustice, rain. Look, I said, they endure, the sound, the visuals, the memory – episodic, yes, but they endure – people would not forgive bystander. The moth fell again, shuddering, struggling. And her finger, gushing with golden blood, was still pointing at the priestess, who smiled, and said, you decide, it’s your body. To sequester, draw a line on the snow, better with blood, but tears would suffice too – and so the stranger was repeatedly created and destroyed.

1

I discerned a face in the sand. It peered at me the way a child may peer at ants. I knew that face, had traced over the wrinkles marring the forehead, rubbed a finger on the mole below the eye, thought it was grime, realised it was not, and poked at the nose that was half an inch too long. It was a face of a woman, the eccentric lady who frequented my dreams, always walking with clicking heels, ivory robes dragging sludge, who dug pits with her purple fingernails. Are you look for this, I asked, handing over her face. She stood, corpse-like, and said, this lonely and bright thing, it beckons me, but this is not my face. This is yours.

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Jun 11, 2021

Jun 11, 2021 at 4:15 AM UTC

SummerBlues

Dream Logic III

I discerned a face in the sand. It peered at me the way a child may peer at ants. I knew that face, had traced over the wrinkles marring the forehead, rubbed a finger on the mole below the eye, thought it was grime, realised it was not, and poked at the nose that was half an inch too long. It was a face of a woman, the eccentric lady who frequented my dreams, always walking with clicking heels, ivory robes dragging sludge, who dug pits with her purple fingernails. Are you look for this, I asked, handing over her face. She stood, corpse-like, and said, this lonely and bright thing, it beckons me, but this is not my face. This is yours.

1

The dragonfly that perches on your finger, on the wall, at the doorstep, like still life human history, on the page, close to the vines, balancing atop that blue teacup, fanning steam as time slips, whistles, rips like stitches twisted, which unravelled, like a wish you made last summer when horses snickered, reined by steel knights sweating and kissing gloved hands, ladies laughing over earl grey tea and shipped silk, the dragonfly danced upon melancholic waters what is skulking in the moist darkness must come forth and answer how one equates infinite and none, vain, like history, snow, and gold, before sung poetry from the old — to live one’s life for something, you say, is to live one’s life alone for something what is repeated, wars and manipulation, mutual destruction, human reproduction, drilling and penetrating, with rhythm and with force, Is intrinsically obscene, the mechanics ancient and ****** beastly brutal and brutally simple – the human wheel of time dawn broke over churning waters, a cycle of chalky, foamed flowers grew and died, quivering is the white fish washed ashore twitching, pulsating, then stilled the dragonfly, sensing death, skitters away

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May 2, 2021

May 2, 2021 at 10:40 AM UTC

SummerBlues

(un)becoming of Civilisation

The dragonfly that perches on your finger, on the wall, at the doorstep, like still life human history, on the page, close to the vines, balancing atop that blue teacup, fanning steam as time slips, whistles, rips like stitches twisted, which unravelled, like a wish you made last summer when horses snickered, reined by steel knights sweating and kissing gloved hands, ladies laughing over earl grey tea and shipped silk, the dragonfly danced upon melancholic waters what is skulking in the moist darkness must come forth and answer how one equates infinite and none, vain, like history, snow, and gold, before sung poetry from the old — to live one’s life for something, you say, is to live one’s life alone for something what is repeated, wars and manipulation, mutual destruction, human reproduction, drilling and penetrating, with rhythm and with force, Is intrinsically obscene, the mechanics ancient and ****** beastly brutal and brutally simple – the human wheel of time dawn broke over churning waters, a cycle of chalky, foamed flowers grew and died, quivering is the white fish washed ashore twitching, pulsating, then stilled the dragonfly, sensing death, skitters away

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