All sensors,
but they sense you not.
your sensibility
got drowned
in that parking lot.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
I offer my spine
to the midnight couch
And my trousers
to the stone-cold floor
I drown all patience
in Saturday’s wine.
And maim my poetry
until
it is
no more.
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 11:29 AM UTC
I write to you
when my poetry is rhyme.
I write to you
when my poetry is ill.
I write to you
in moments of style.
and in moments
when all style stands
still.
I write to you
on cubic balconies
dangling from loud
and misty skies
I write to you
from men-infested markets
buzzing with cumin,
toenails and flies
I write to you
before picking up my pen,
and after putting it down
for good
And in between these moments,
I feed these letters
to mad chimneys and
starving wood.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC