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Summer May 2
The dragonfly
that perches on your finger,
on the wall, at the doorstep,
like still-life human history,
balancing atop that blue tea cup,
fanning steam

as time slips, whistles, rips
like stitches twisted, which
unraveled, like a wish
you made last summer
when horses snickered, reined by
steel knights sweating and kissing
gloved hands, ladies laughing
over earl grey tea and shipped silk,
the dragonfly danced upon
melancholic waters

what is skulking in the moist darkness
must come forth and answer
how one equates infinite and none,
vain, like history, snow, and gold,
before sung poetry from the old —
to live one’s life for something, you say,
is to live one’s life alone for something

what is repeated,
drilling and penetrating,
with rhythm and with force,
is intrinsically obscene,
the mechanics ancient and ******,
beastly brutal and brutally simple

dawn broke
over churning waters, a cycle of
chalky, foamed flowers grew and died,
quivering was the white fish washed ashore
twitching, pulsating, then stilled

the dragonfly, sensing death,
skitters away
Summer Apr 30
can you see through the haze of
future parading shadows of commuters in the
                            crevice of time
past the kaleidoscopic glass castle and
                            sepia windows
reflected in your eyes
students baying within bubbles of blue
blaring muted, ancient, utopian cries
                             from now
Today I had the last day of lecture, feels like an unofficial graduation.
How time flies
Summer Apr 26
language —
transparent, like the purest water,
when things were yet to be named, at the beginning
in the cradle of nothingness,
where darkness came first, before light,
before fire and earth,
Oceans, the favourite child, and the sky,
with her celestial, feathery friends, lazing on that hazy chasm;
from the horizon,
emerged forms and words
and poetry
Summer Apr 21

Blue base and pink hues, black lining, framing the face saw once in dreams, a face with a name that began with the letter M. The other painting – a hazy black, red lips, no eyes – is a man’s face. Flying across shadowed, spiraling stairs, I encountered exits blocked by chairs – all these impressionist paintings hanging along the classroom corridors, where a painter was explaining to his students the woman he met in his dream… they all called to me as a dream factory, dream logic – where everything was bound and unburdened, and amidst this uncertainty, we were told to identify faces in coffin paintings. All day we tried matching to no avail, mouth uttering half-formed names. Then the old lady I was working with let out a wail. She bolted, I followed, and there we saw two creatures known as men – to the man on the right, she greeted with the M-lettered name, and to the left she pointed at the eyeless, ashen painting, said, stranger, this is you – and they wept together.
Summer Apr 21

It is mankind’s nature to make things with his own hands, leave imprints, and craft legends. His fingers itch to dip into colored powder, tracing animals over stone’s face, carving bodies out of empty space – using nothing to build everything. Silvery machine, steel men, crawling, dragging tanks on sand. Future humans don’t need to see these, Commander said, they only need to know the impression of these, and then they will be able to build possessions like these.
A dream i had this morning
Summer Nov 2020
my love letter to dreamers is the
solitary snow flower in an ashen field
missing your sweet innocence & the
dimming embers of your fiery heart
leaking a deathly pallor too cold to touch
bitter rue tasting like moonlight kissing purple cauliflower
ephemerality is the gentle promise of something
beyond this world of banality
for you know, dreamers of young & old,
the silver, the blue, the yellow,
the colorless & intangible is
where you will reside
forever & more
forever & ever & more
Something inspired by a recent favourite song of mine, called A Love Letter to Filmmakers
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