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.

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
**** 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

(Alt title: Colors That Will Mean Nothing)

I am a Fauve
My love of colors
exist not in reality; a fraud
but in a recital
of never-ending silence

Home and school,
the grays of the abusive enigma,
Outside under rule,
the blacks of the abusive enigma,
but the river- Oh, the river-

Blue is not its only love,
a reflection of the human emotions,
place of a seeking Fauve,
And in those waves- a peaclful notion,
a boy with eyes closed.

Escaping, escaping,
reaching the bottom,
a living manifesto,
one that speaks from
how blue the skin has gone,
then purple,
and finally,
declining from the
mindset of a Fauve,
the boy has become
colorless.
And in this case,
lifeless.

- enriko eozyoh