enriko 7d

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 9 enriko
peaseblossoms

i.

i swear to god i'd better not
pick up my muse in this
kitchen / better not find it
hiding in the crumbs of
cauliflower dotted on the
slick wood cutting board /
like stars better not find it in
the way the water sticks
sweet to my skin / better
not find it in her begging
'cause if i do / we're in for
a honeystorm, we're in / for
the collossal crash of flashbacks
dragging me backwards flat
onto the tile, where
my feet stay stone stiff still




ii.

there are words that are buried within me again
and i've got my head stuck in the dirt

they say "pull yourself out of the poem, my dove,"
but i love to breathe in with the earth

(so i watch the unfurling in utero of
all the violet veins of my verse)



iii.

i write glitter and raindrops and fairy-toes with a few heavy hitters and i guess that's what it's all about / rhyming like fractals dripping metaphors like i'm shattering glass taking words caught in the slits between my teeth and drawing them out like magic string not nibbling at the loose skin on my thumb like that moody brooder but tearing it off and letting it sting so hard i can feel it. letting myself sparkle so hard my heart makes a home in my throat. i look panic straight in the face and then close my eyes to it or close my fist around its neck with the pull of muscle. i have found what i need and when it leaches and leaks i burn out.

poetry is what i'm gonna make out of this tangled hair

4/2/17
  Jan 9 enriko
Erin

I have a bit of a blunt proposition for you:
let us move to Wisconsin or somewhere just as hidden
among soy fields and monotony;
let us leave our names behind,
the concrete slabs too heavy for our broken frames and silk rucksacks;
I am tired of fulfilling a Sisyphus contract, to be entirely honest.

I think that we could hitchhike from I-95
and drum our anthems on fleshy kneecaps,
our sights pulled away from the windows of some random Honda Accord
as scenes of purple mountains majesty paint themselves
on the insides of our singed eyelids.

Wouldn’t you love to skip along dirt roads
and forget the concrete jungles
that left painful calluses on your palms
and broke my left arm in a juvenile monkey bars contest,
complete with purple cast and a tablespoon of kids’ ibuprofen.
Pleistocene mulch would no longer plant itself
in our pink feet,
and the scars from past romps would heal.

We could lay in the high grasses until high noon,
until the moon rises high in the sky,
until it sinks behind our worn heels
and lights them with its cool flame.

Our minds could wander in Wisconsin,
wily teenage worries abandoned in favor
of punk-rock philosophies.

Maybe we could even make up that alt band
you dreamed of at sixteen,
as blandess is the birthplace of creativity;
you could pick up a flea market guitar,
and I could sing with a newfound, folksy humor.

We could do anything, and we could do nothing.

That’s the glory of something over the turnpike.

Just shake my hand,
those callouses scraping my crepey skin
and forming a blood bond like no other.

No signature required.

Leave your post stamps on your pock-marked kitchen counter.

enriko Jan 5

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

enriko Dec 2017

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.

i want to over-indulge again.
enriko Dec 2017

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.

enriko Dec 2017

when the sun fears enough to cower over
the moon with its knees and
is kissing the tender
glass of the mirror
that reflects one side,

neptune weeps like a baby
birthed from a place unknown
yet needy all the same.

with that,
my eyes are forced open
my hands to take its waist,
its apple that was once
part of a tree.

heat sears me like stigma
yet this is different:

a paradox that speaks
not in tongues of abuse
or nationalism of one's mind.

instead,
this new sensation
is accompanied by
a high-pitched falsetto
as if feeling every paper cut
prod into his mind,
his flesh of lost innocence.

then, when reaching out
to touch this "him",
this hymn i've found,
his skeletal oblivion makes itself known.

- eozyoh. 8.12.2017. 12:42 am

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