I met him in the night.
A Gayborhood local
told me he was from Venezuela, but didn’t have to,
his accent, so beautiful with its deep grit and softness,
twang and lisp.
I already knew, he didn’t have to tell me.
He bought me drinks, and watched
me and only me,
as I bit from the fruit of his garden.
He invited me to an afterparty, I didn’t know
him, but we went through alleys,
dampened by the heat of bodies
melding to the brick walls, glistening
in the streetlights and nightlife. Unknown lips
pressed and held, to stay, not to
part. It was
beautiful.
Within the alley was
our destination: underground. It was
a luscious venue, crowded, exuberant and whimsy.
Velvet covered the walls, and he brought me more drinks.
I finished them all.
I remember
locking lips with a stranger, and how
it hurt.
He was warm and sweaty, and
smelled of Burberry and whiskey,
his stubble left
my face burning.
He grabbed my hand, and led me to
the bathroom, then I woke up
in his bed.
I remembered
his husband’s name, and that
he lived in Caracas, that
we had *** and took
a shower together, that
his mother, dying from leukemia,
slept upstairs, unknowing.
I wept
in a stranger’s arms,
cradled by their tiny physique.
I wept
for our beloveds.
Oct 16, 2020
Oct 16, 2020 at 1:27 AM UTC
Tragedy ruins
Barricades
And dams
within
Minds,
Releasing
Memories
-Thoughts-
Thought to be
Confined
And restrained
Beneath
Clean beds,
Behind
Closed doors,
Far from
The confines
Of comfort
Tragedy is
Reminiscent
Of people
Places
Or things
That never
Change,
Never could
Tragedy is
Perpetual,
Steeping in
Contentment,
Releasing
Notes of
Burning oak
Gasoline
And oxides
Into
the lungs
Of innocents
And
The uneducated,
Never to
Understand
That both
Beauty
And privilege
Are nurtured by
The arms
Of tragedy
Feb 28, 2018
Feb 28, 2018 at 6:05 PM UTC
A crying infant,
hushed by the soft,
murderous hands
of an angel
doing nothing
more than abiding by
the laws of State.
A State
that will soon
put out
an amber alert
for a would-be child
that will never be found.
A grieving woman
in an era of
naivete and lies
cannot be suspect
of a crime
that defies that of which
she is, a mother
to a missing child.
But prints are fact
and thoughts are not,
so..
the inevitable will occur:
a vacant cell
will soon find
company, and a body
will also soon
become vacant,
like the womb
that shed
the life it once bore.
"I ******* hate you",
and its of no surprise.
One finding
comfort in those
who are seeking
comfort. Lost
and developing
presence in
a crowd that
acknowledges
the "new".
A child losing themselves
in the haze of
an aloof run, towards
a blinding light which
will only cause
them to stray
from the path they
were once on.
An action
that will inevitably go
unnoticed
due to ignorance
caused by the
excitement of
happiness.
A mother in a daze
of content
smothered her child
with love,
involuntary manslaughter.
One can never be too cautious when committing a crime of passion, but, on the other hand, one can never be cautious when it comes to passion.
Romance and Tragedy: Conflicting ideologies collapsing infinitely, in a state only curable by the latter. Realities stitched together with life and lives.
The condition of love.
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 5:15 PM UTC
I feel as though
I've been lingering
In the outskirts of
Myself
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 9:57 PM UTC
Sitting
still,
abiding
by guidelines
that exist
solely
to straighten
the frayed edges
of bent societies
that gaze
at carbon skies,
witnessing
light
reflect
into light,
reflecting
into light,
multiplied
by numbers
only molecules
and wavelengths
themselves
could fathom;
northern lights
in southern skies.
Man
manufacturing hope,
a nonlinear
product
for each
and every
demographic.
The ultimate sales ploy.
It’s easy to stray from topics
when every topic includes another,
colonies coinciding within others,
biomes, environments, cultures,
cells, organs, organisms,
inclusive to any wishing to reside and migrate to,
a collage of lives shaped by the hands of gods,
soft thoughts are easiest to mold.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 11:49 PM UTC
Lets leap through
stained walls
built by those
with red palms
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 6:53 PM UTC
Plaque..
lingering on the
outermost surface of
my fingers,
palms,
skin.
nothing new.
coming of age
in an era
of grease, oil
***
patriarchs,
the third wave,
followed by
a tsunami,
soon to come,
earthquakes are
too prevalent
for this not to be.
my hands will soon
be washed clean of
the sin that was placed
on them,
--not on
my own accord,
but on theirs.
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 3:12 AM UTC
Tired
and bloated.
-filled
to the brim
with ********
that isn't
yours,
or theirs
-nobody's-
but
the patterns
that refuse
to cease.
point blank,
a tweaze,
small enough
for a
particle
you swore
to have seen
but didn't.
unravelling
thread on
pants, that,
at one time,
belonged to you.
pulling up
a shirt,
showing skin,
marked
with beauty
and growth
blue and pale,
shown to
everything,
but
the sun.
naked
in the
dark.
a brief
illumination
of life,
for a second
that is too
short
to be
a second,
leading
to a
momentary
darkness
that is
too long
to be
a moment.
Timeless
fragments
of life
splattered
across the
walls,
floor,
ceiling,
-non-representational-
like the
emotions
they once felt.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 4:49 PM UTC
My dear
little
ghost
on a noose,
help me
break
through the
clouds that
drown
the world
and darken
the shadows
beneath
my restless
eyes.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 4:26 PM UTC
A set of queens pierce
The eyes that gaze upon it,
Caught in a daze while
Dull heat rises from the toes
To the black hair that
Covers his pale scalp.
The ending to a game
Of thrones,
Kings.
Irresistible jealousy.
Sheets draped, uncovered,
Lying, twisted in a pool
Of sweat and blood.
Drooping eyes catching
His.
He is lost, cold, broken,
Comfortable now.
They are comfortable,
Now.
Sep 1, 2015
Sep 1, 2015 at 12:55 AM UTC