i shoot this bandaid into the hole through your head
it leaves a mark, a hole. makes you like a window
without glass. there is no blood
and therefore, no medical is needed.
but you tell me that that bandaid hurt and that a bullet
would have said more in blood and in sound
and would have been better.
i tell you there is no such thing as the pain you describe.
i say until i see a lock of your hair in my locker dipped in
your own blood dye, you are as alive as all of us are.
but the day comes when the sun is not as prevalent
and the moon is silent and becomes an abandonning mother,
and you do not give me your black hair in blood.
by morning we see the oceans love you,
give you the tenderness you wanted, give you
words of encouragement and a welcoming into
their community.
by morning we see the oceans be your actual mother.
we see your hole filled with water never to be empty
for we do not dig you a grave, especially when the sand
themselves tuck you into the river bed.
by night, we realize our beds could have been a
potential place of comfort to you.
by next year, the world forgets your name was once
dipped in ink the same way you are dipped in water and blood.
my locker stays unlocked, in disbelief.
by adulthood, i wish to go swimming with you.
Jan 4, 2019
Jan 4, 2019 at 7:44 AM UTC
How wonderful it is, I say, to the retreating
yellow form of your feelings I mistook
For Infatuation, you’re a romance heckler
far and far away from
Accepting fruition within classrooms and
being labelled as an angel.
And it was within forbidden hell of
euphoria, I found
You nestled in the society’s psyche
neither content or calling
For help. Neither did you neglect the
pink spectacles of the society,
Even found yourself moulding and moulding
into a fungi green
That I could not recognize, within that
half-sanctum, half-oasis I found you
absentmindedly
Bathing in, you were already out of
its waters.
And I was no longer seeing you within
the dry desert or the sibilance
of my desires, but instead
in cement woodlands and
Within artificial communication and
Intimacy I gave willingly.
Now how does it feel, to have your
heart in one piece,
How does it feel to not use
whipped cream to fill in the
Cracked, salty sections of your
own ***** that,
Out of confusion, continues to
play its favorite song but
in all the wrong beats.
Somehow within cacophony I found
you, nestled, comfortable in
Bogus, fraudulent wings of a former
angel- who now weeps under our
Feet in theory- Somehow, somewhere,
I lost you within an epiphany
That reeked of bliss and pleasure-
Somehow, we end up losing
Twins of the heavens when all is well.
How wonderful.
How wonderful it is, I say, to your
lost, secretly-weeping figure
That I can’t tell whether transparent or
yellow your figure is.
But I keep speaking-
“Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is-
To love the first angel I’ve set
my eyes upon-
“Oh, how (falsely) wonderful it is-
To lose an angel, no matter how
phoney, to a social heaven.”
- enriko. aug 5. 11:45pm
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 12:32 PM UTC
caress a ghost's hand to feel less lonely
undress her nightgown to feel her boney
structure and look into her eyes of ebony
what you cannot find within four walls
comes to you here, in your “baby doll”’s
presence, in waves of red light and calls
from people who prefer to think they missed
you but in reality theyve never felt rinsed
hands from blood that has stuck ever since
you raised them up high to struck a chord
in someones neck- only to feel a cheap sword
up your buttocks but not feel pain or sorrow.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 5:04 AM UTC
The demon squirms under your touch.
The chair that was once possessed
by someone (or was it “something”?)
that could not move on from
their, old, familiar comfort.
The demon squirms under your touch.
Under your index finger, your ring finger
and the finger of promises
(that are yet to be fulfilled)
that is stuck in their plump limps.
(These plump limps are not to be on the
Same wavelength as you- In fact,
These pretty lips have been forced
to utter mumbled words of
ambiguous desire for your sake.)
You lay the (perhaps trusted) demon
On the train tracks, hoping for it
To lavish in the indicator
of sweet, fresh death.
Of Endless Blood.
The train comes.
The conductor does not stop.
The passengers do not scream.
The train goes for the demon,
Seemingly Deliberate.
The demon- it opens its eyes,
continues to breathe.
Regardless of the fact that its
Existence was woven exclusively
Because of your sins-
The demon weeps.
-
He weeps for heaven as he does not belong in your head anymore.
(He is real. He is an outcast produced from / a Heaven that has abandoned him and / now- you too?)
The train keeps going .
You, the Troubled Human, board the train.
(You feel something heavily pull at your / nerves and now you contemplate your / actions in opposition to the court room in / your head.)
You leave the weeping demon (dream)
(You cannot understand if the demon is a / dream and had / nestled itself deep in your roots.)
From where you stand, you see snow on its eyelids. You force yourself to kneel inside the compartment.
(The gesture is no longer an ode to the / demon’s Creator, for the Creator has no / desire to listen in on humanly matters.)
You pray for the supposed antagonist that lays its body, bare and vulnerable, on aged and ***** tracks.
-
Existence breathing in & out.
Existence that soon will bloom into ruby blood.
It slides from your scalp to your legs and to
the soil that birthed you
(Mother Nature listens in, whether she is / proud of you or not, / you have grown to not to care.)
Existence, it tunes in & out,
For people that live on the edge
Of Nirvana.
Drums that are held by a ribcage are coming to
a promised halt, to an exasperated outro.
The demon (the Dream, the Ego) dies.
No one squirms for anything these days.
- Eoz
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 4:50 AM UTC
I. THE CONFRONTATION
The angel. It stares at me-
For what, I wonder?
In its glossy eyes-
So wet that it could reflect
My staring face back
That remains anti-climatic,
That remains forgettable
That still remains staring.
The angel. It should laugh-
At me, the Fresh And Modern Fool
Who is short of sparks
That go off in the heart.
However, the angel- it does not
Come to me with its
Face red,
Face puffy,
Eyes glossy
& losing faith
That is reserved for its Creator.
II. THE NEW SIN
In fact:
It has not come to riducle me.
For my lack of speech,
My lack of basic human tendencies,
My lack of basic silent rhythm shared
between one person and another-
Instead, it wants to ask me-
Or better yet- it Demands me,
“Who is it? That has hands
As red as this blood pooling
Out of me,
Never to stop?-
“Whose hands can stab,
An angel without agony,
Without underlying trauma
That nurtured him?-
“Who could possibly pray
In front of me,
With their hands bloodied
In association with a blade-
“Eyes without remorse
Or personal passion?
Why, why, why, oh why?
Could it be you?-
III. THE ACCUSATION AND FORCED PERCEPTION
“The Fool?
The Fresh and Modern bufoon
That fails to begin yet
Fails to end?”
- eoz.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 1:18 PM UTC
my lover, she baptized herself in blood;
my lover, she reeks, reeks of
everything the postman hasn't told her.
my lover, she baptized herself in blood;
my lover, she talks, talks of
life back in between waters and death.
my love, my love, my love,
wont let me sing a sonnet to her
before her body reeks of
fertilizers and plants i'll leave in
her jigsaw puzzle skull.
my lover, she reeks, reeks of
nostalgia i cant withstand.
my love, my love, my love.
my lover, she reeks, reeks of
her clothes at home i called death.
oh,
my Lover, she baptized herself in blood.
- eozyoh. 21.01.2018
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 4:08 AM UTC
i beg as if in need.
an infatuation,
a connection,
between today and me.
holding out my hand,
i see not mine,
but the person
"yesterday and tomorrow".
the pillowman screams
messing and mixing
with who i ought to be-
tonight is no different.
i walk in circles,
in melancholy,
and fraud joviality,
never to be anything.
-eozyoh. 14.03.17
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 9:48 AM UTC
I've killed god,
so nobody knows where
she is-
But if the angels are good and
the demons
they decide to strip me from all
forgiveness
and who I had coveted in flesh
and psyche-
Maybe within her eyes:
I'll finally find,
I'll finally hold,
I'll finally see,
that nirvana I once
caressed with blood-dipped fingers,
blooming and blooming,
oozing and oozing
out of her pupils
I never noticed had
already began to dilate.
Dilating and dilating-
dipping and dipping-
digging and digging-
for something that only
surfaced once.
However,
I had dipped my fingers too deep;
too intimately,
and in a school bell's single ring,
I had gone and taken us
from heaven to hell.
- eozyoh. 14.12.17/5.1.18
Jan 5, 2018
Jan 5, 2018 at 11:22 AM UTC
you are the fundamental sin,
a new junkie's oasis.
the night has come,
no one is hard to please.
feeding off of your emotions,
the portal to your gentle vulnerability
which i lack-
i want your bones, your flesh;
i want your pale skin, your soul;
riddled with my purple euphoric prose.
i look out
for your words to expose
and expose more and more
of your cracked skin.
you need love, red skin
and wet lips without blood
blooming underwater-
and i need another
warmth i cannot
contemplate.
entertain me,
entertain me,
show me what i am obsessed with.
eozyoh.
13.12.2017.
12:41.
Dec 16, 2017
Dec 16, 2017 at 10:59 AM UTC
I.
My pillow smells like another deity.
In the morning, I breathe out
from only one form,
daylight to dictate who is allowed to wake,
from within me.
And during that time,
I am one deity;
I am one deity;
I am one deity.
But when night falls
and lullabies are accepted into a place
with four walls and barely a door,
I am seeded into a different
plane of reality.
Hitting my pillow,
falling into its soft embrace,
its plastic scent is dizzying-
because it is not mine.
This way,
vertigo can easily write itself over
my heightened senses.
II.
In this realm,
I exist not as myself,
or just one deity that
wishes to be
skinny-dipping into daylight
without anxiety.
Instead,
I am everything I ever wanted to be-
either something that is
close to this "true persona" i speak of
or something of a far away fantasy.
In this realm,
this void that is a blockage
from a world of judgemental skin,
I have one hand-
the key to the judgements
of the ministrations of the night.
III.
You see,
in this realm,
there are two things your hands can do
in a rather lengthy moment of warm privacy.
You can either use both yellow hands
(frigid, lacking of blood circulation),
to embrace
(without loving, without care)
to snake around your neck or
you can snake one hand
between two pillars that,
in daylight,
bring them from one place
to another.
IV.
While,
far far away,
in a wonderland,
you (or perhaps me?) wish
to be a part of one day-
a boy you've seen in short,
sizzling hallways to arousal
and moments of desire
ー He sings.
V.
He sings for you in unknown pity,
in the fact that he barely knows you,
in the fact that you,
despite never being able to touch
such majestic and soft paleness
of another-
to touch what can be touched,
yet you yourself cannot-
He sings for you until your fingers move slowly
far, far away from hell
yet closer and closer to a little
bit of death.
That is how it is;
your pillow that smells of another deity
that isn't in accordance to the "you"
painted by social sunlight-
That is how it is;
a duplication of you that is somewhat you
and the small waist you felt
your fingers touch-
afraid you'd break their
small innocent body
is gone.
It's morning now,
and fantasies are better
when kissed by blankets
and shown with purple skin
and a clock
that depicts midnight.
VI.
Before you do,
morning comes first
and it is time-
to burn yet another
undecipherable duplication
of yourself-
or whatever left of who you
used to be.
- eozyoh. 14.12.2017. 16:37.
Dec 15, 2017
Dec 15, 2017 at 11:03 AM UTC