Mischievous little moon
You are beautiful
I wonder if you know
Though you’re often told
(You know
You can take that hood off
It ain’t cool
You look like a squished football
or an orange rotten from one side
No offence)
But really, you’re beautiful
It is strange
I have words, but none better
Yet beautiful is so much
Mustard flowers
And bluebirds
That girl down the street and her bright-pink smile
Mother’s laugh
Myself too,
Sometimes

But I do not mean that.
I cannot compare you to Arabian Jasmines
Or Sapphire stones
You’re beautiful
unlike all
I think everything’s like that
sigh

But there’s this moment
In the middle of a breath, in the middle of a day
Unbidden
It sprouts sturdily out
Like a Morning Glory seedling
In the midst of a Mint shrub

When it drizzles
And I lose my body for a while
My eyes fixed
At the knitted pattern of the chair
Mother places scraps of stale bread
For the crows to finish
And little brother, not so little now,
Rants about his Minecraft battles
The dragons he defeated
And forts he conquered
(through massacre, but let's not talk about that)
He complains about the sun
(It is not square, and, well, it is real)
Mother complains about his complain
And, vaguely,
I hear the traffic
Four storeys below
That of cars and bikes
Gossiping and giggling
An ambulance
wailing

I think
Someone might be in it
Wincing and pleading to go faster
Or maybe silent, a still god
I think
I still have my test to prepare
I think
Whatever
**** the test
I think
That darkened bird
And its undeniable existence
Is kind of offensive  
But it’s pretty too
Rich purple peeks through that night
Blue and gold
And silver as well, a little

Mother talks about my climbing rose
That’s taking over the balcony railings
And a kite soars by
With a hoarse hiss
I think
Did I sleep last night?
Was I awake?
Perhaps, it was a lingering in between
I think
My brother looks so much
Like that crow
I think
****, dude, he really does

I voice this epiphany to him
And I get a smack
He gets one back
‘Cause mama didn’t raise a sweet
Frail butterfly
But, dude can he hit
I hit him again, which is unjust and dangerous
one must not meddle with little brothers
But mama couldn't groom the idiocy out of
Her daughter
I think
You've tickled the snoring beast
Now flea, you idiot
I run, he runs
Mother squints up in the sun
(Look who came to see the show)
I run, he runs
I laugh when he stumbles
And falls

Cement rough over his innocent skin
Clouds dripping on

It is strange
Those moments
I lurk through loudness to the quiet of my flesh
Then sneak into the noisy life within
And yearn for peace
All about
I flutter with a merry dancing
In my bones
And something weeps, weeps
Weeps on

I think you’re beautiful like that
A divinity I cannot touch
Nor see
A hymn I dare not grasp or
Or perceive
But I need not.

For you, on whose
Oil painted skin the stars did sleep
For you again,
Who wept, wept in vain

I’d tie a butterfly to the unwavering sky
If only as a frail worm to
lure the fish
But did we not swear to leave the winged
alone?

Yet, there they are
Causing a reckless havoc
Trying to tear open the blue
And I’d shoot them down
But the ground is ours you see

Wounded and bleeding
The dying, as a fish, squirms
A broken spear pinning him in place

And I will keep on burning this dirt
To bricks
One betrothed to other
With cement,
Your own strange creation
The one you pour out your flutes
And pluck out them strings
Like fresh born weeds
dried and crushed

Songs upon songs
We set free up the yonder

But here is a bubble that will not be butchered
Like our sacrificial blooms
Ripened and fat,
This untouched pomegranate
Ravages itself

Long did our labor weave tales out ruin
To build us a shell
Within which we now reside

Unhatched

How do we do? It is pretty
A sight
The sky chokes on dirt and dirt
Drowns in the blue
Time, a trapped moth, flutters about
It collides around in its blind frenzy
And will not settle

I keep on
Painting our dry clouds
Birds still peck at gleaming stars
And you
You live, live in vain

There is a plummeting within me
I reckon not unlike tumble ****
in a lone, stranded desert

That of violence
so long silenced
That of anger, and hail storms
upon freshly blossomed hyacinths

a smothered baby bird
or a tree towed down
Repressed,
the twigs and shrivelled seedlings
cry out
and dry gusts hear
One upon other lunges

And I, them weeds—
them weeds— and more,
a deafening brawl

Rolled, as wool, into an orb
That laughs an unkept,
dimming painting
Jumps over rocks
this wicked, rotten child,
And descends under still

Perhaps—
A brick that stumbles out the wall of my skull
and down my depths,
it begins to explore

The den
where an injured bird
snores bleeding
And ceramic bars that surround
Down still—

A churning, twisting furnace
Burning all menace to gold
And labyrinths
beneath
Restless as they warp
upon themselves—
Them groaning snakes

It plummets down still
past the stars
past the battered moon

On, on ’til the cracked rocks
Pull it under, under, under

and my steps feel heavy
A fat brick kiln burping within
And steam and smoke
strangely slither

Then one more brick breaks loose
then one more, then—

and there is a plummeting within me
Like that of beads from a broken necklace
They lurk
from flesh to flesh
Climb up my bare white trees
filled with mud

This faded landscape painting
claws down my spine
And ***** its stollen hues out
Like those

of battles
or slaughtered moths
Of old, crinkled terrors etched
with foolery
Hymns of fury undissolved
and those of naked, shivering sheep

a kitten’s skull
stuck down the drain

There’s a plummeting within me
terrifying, and disgusting; angry and
beautiful— all hyped up to scream
I fear the landslides will
carry me along
and I will let them.