It's fall now, I am still in my daydream.
My fingers fondling with the perforation of my paper,
Quartz color lights in my short-sighted view beams, like lilies
The films he forgotten thrown on wood,
I could hold on I whisper to myself
I am shrewd enough.
I could die, to the voice inevitably resonant in my ears
I could bear on the crumpled, the crinkled, the crippled.
but why do memories reign
why am I dying to this qualm?
_I promise_
I'll be me, your fleece-like Ophelia
I'm not forgotten, I whisper to myself.
My pupils dilating to the fading of light,
I crawled to the switch,
but lights couldn't be on.
l.r
Sep 23, 2016
Sep 23, 2016 at 8:17 AM UTC
*the halcyon timberland rest
a cottage with gliding vines upon its wall
tasted soot and first snow,
knew the land where all grass grows.
I am a piece of mild apple rotting in merry hues
upon skeletons of twirling tree roots.
I peek skywards to the ripen boughs
and the mirthful hopping birds
of gold and yellow, of ruby and dream.
Amidst a silvery silent
sun rays make its glow of gold
with the sapphire ocean's salt.
Hear the wealthy sea soughing from afar?
in quiet burrows the rabbit takes its ample rest
as deep and soundly as dormant butterflies
in the green harmony bushes;
with the subtle, halcyon seawaves' singing...
A fine lullaby indeed.*
l.r
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 11:09 PM UTC
*Out by the clean blue river
the pale full moon hums a song
Lily buds by the woods keep its vigil
forlorn and crestfallen, gaily sings.
The sky is drowsy with beaks and feathers of mist
Little nightingales chirp queerly on the sycamore trees.
Hibiscus petals doze soundly, the cackling birds hobble.
The white, epicene faces peep in riveting eyes
Dancing with milk-white limbs and garnet cheeks
Brown eyes with ample warm, precious as fairy gold.
The babyish little birdvoices,
who sing and pirouette out innocence;
Melodic rhythm of the flowing river
seething out the blithe without worries.
Cold clouds and rabbits like fluff honey
Little stars tonight will be candies.*
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 12:02 AM UTC
*footsteps like swan feathers,
flow to behind the tombstones—
where I will call the memories and lay;
to wake for the times anew.*
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 7:24 PM UTC
the burnt throat, sour as strawberries
*maple leafs gathered up into punnets,
syrups into leaks of old milk bottles,
with red strawberries, they read sonnets;
in stillness and grace, among daylighted face.
Some wayfarers' time, tedious, delight and gradual,
meretricious and surreal, like whimsical moon's moral;
yet so gentle and fine, ruther foul, alike of snow.
the smells of red berries with angel cakes coalesced,
a gallery of yarn meadows unhang, collapsed.*
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
*embers drew to a shaded face, fragmented lips wept;
storms, feral and unabated, loitering in the combe of fires.
the ethereal visions of honey amber lights, faint and narrow;
ebony of my pupils dead, alike of shriveled meadow.
violence thrusted into yellow mouths of daffodils,
like tapestries like yarns of blue saccharine sorrows.
brimming with viscid liquids of blackeries and vains,
like silver mackerels, sleeping out of the abyss, on a train;
like subtle, maladroit shorthands and dewy black inks,
who lilts the fawnish plateaus and quaint alleys.
the depths of my shallow sleeps, glowing under
the burnt foliage, mellifluous sonatas gently play;
strawberries occur under bare walls of throat,
vanish on the morrow, like a dalliance—
so frantic and hollow.*
Jan 3, 2014
Jan 3, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
melancholy blanketed the whites
scarred voices muffled by
a ****** mind.
an avalanche stuck in my soul
severer than a bee at a forked road
how confused!
red-cheeked petals and afternoon birds glare
in confusions at the footsteps :
unbalance, shaded, muted!
the green umbrella's warm, so scorchingly cold!
all embittered, by solemn beams of the soulless sun.
their eyes widen,
for they had never seen such lone,
for such lone, rare, is forbid to the sons of nature,
never belong to happy child's arms,
that dreams in a mother's charm.
grieving droughts in the air and grass,
no dews, why!,
yawned the madden, soporific rabbit
Ah, so wild.
the windless noontime cross, my quivers stopped, mild.
lashes waxed, blacken like a coal,
mind stuck in a haze, or maybe a threatening maze.
stiffness of the air injected to my nostrils
into my white tongue they will soak, like perfumes to a clothe.
Selene will gaze angrily at this and say,
why no, it shouldn't be in there!
the midnight orchids waver and frown.
soon the frothing dreams peter,
but the bolded letters in a white board stay,
my chair stays.
creaks of an abominable burden became a din.
The smudges of grey-white dust I smelt
hover gaily in the air of pompous breath.
spellbound by the stagnant languor,
mazy, in hallucinations of the heat and homesick.
I sought the fount of hypocrisy and vile,
my hiding nonchalances rosen
(towards a flock of friends)
and loathes to an abominable sun frozen
(I wished it to die!)
Tilted to the windows,
I saw nothing, but fatal secrets of a heart rosed
like window dust to a nose.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 3:45 AM UTC
*veins of my fingers in riots of blossomed colours
like threads made of lilac, lavender, blues and leafs.
for the blues are essences of the Elysian skies,
while lilacs, lavenders and leafs were stolen from an old man's farm
every dawn the sunlit blue wept for the docile stars' hide
I knock my knuckles red and wild, like the raspberries from the monsieur's farm
my chin against the beige, I gaze to where the magpies talk too loudly on the garden moist
swollen and offended by the loud chirps of boisterous dins, the grouchy neighbour cry.
I fill my baskets with wild things and papers,
I have cheese and juices, fruits and sweet carrots.
I have peach trees on my nails for jam
I have cherries in my toes for pie
I have snows in my lapin's soul for some ice creams
I have poppies in my worn pants for a good sight
And there's even vineyards of all Verona in my mind
the ribbons on the hat loom into the gardens' tunnel;
I have herb gardens, I have secret gardens
And I have my old books and pens in there.
when my laces are riven, the embroidered flowers are not.
the canvas shoes is painted in petrichors and soil
my dresses go tattered, sewn with patches
into the vines, thorns and russet throats I lilt and leap
against smells of rustic wood pencils and redolent flowers
There, under a green willow is where to sit and devour wisdom
and to drink some saccharine wine with mon lapin and maybe some picnic pies.
The abominable tremors will be gone,
My morn soul diving into fairy pools of sensuous europhias.*
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 10:09 AM UTC
*in the bleakest twilight, stars, a rural sea
hues possessing confusions, mayhem;
like susurrous in the rivers the fugitives seek.
devouring words betwixt papers of prayers
the quiet evensong plays, the salted saliva swallowed
into Rome gardens of sea green and stars
a morose spirit bellow.
into the midst of the labyrinthine coral sea
they'll sail through the soughing seawind
conflating into ocean salts, erupt in mesmeric pulse
soon the April gales will shrink to a bated breath,
credence will turn into a sempiternal menace.
fiery suspires blown to my knees,
auburn tress covered a crescent beam
serenade a zero, I tilt to the drones in the haze
a scintilla of lukewarm left to trace;
to the sea her body lured,
losing panaceas and remedies.
into maelstroms she goes,
inhaling salt water, a spirit wet with ruth;
her grey bones into ash,
into watery cemeteries she goes.*
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
on the villa's balcony, smell of Chanel on papillae
an old siamese cat lays, while a soaked diary takes her rest
for the fountain pen's ink had smell of faint success.
the sugar smell like snow
a spilled tea smelt of rose
diving into mildness and hollows
the odeur follows;
alas! a hail of thunders had came like swords,
it had smell of blood, of rust and warmth;
but the earth smells fancy, and my flowers are in love.
in light, and in truth,
the red white days, balmy as bright weather
will peter, in no such way.
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 4:59 AM UTC