Zodiac signs have failed to tell
of an epoch of limerence waiting ahead
neither could a compass navigate
a homesick constellation to its rightful cell
and yet I travel, swim, and tread
on a glimpse of you
on a foreign thread
on a beacon of fury to accommodate

Epiphany emerged
the world’s ablaze
mnemonic particles floated again
Astral projection took its toll
your skin reached out and took the fall

I oft hear sounds; my sonorous wails
my sword-of-a-body
and my serrated edges
drove them away
but there you were
a scabbard of steel
to engulf and congeal
to hold and to heal

Alpha Cephei has got nothing on you
you became the star that ruled the Earth
the right hand of the northern pole
the right hand I chant my paean for
you were 49 light years away
until you adhered to my directions

My roots will cease to loosen their grip
on your light rays and elysian touch
on what I crave, yearn, and long
for you are the home that got me stuck
and you are the space where I belong

"Measuring the flour, cutting off the surplus, adhering to rules, to rules, to rules."

Baptized once again at 31
you were dressed in an apron of glory
purple-inked and gas-filled
a ******* carved inside your head

Withering in the basement at the age of 10
you took the blade as a best friend
a walking miracle, a providence
you were a tempest of silent wails

Ariel has made a banshee out of you
the world is going up in a shriek
but your head never went with it
an epoch later; you're in holy flames

A golden lotus crescendos in the ground
stripped of the chance to see your Ariel grow
the bell jar is inhabited by some
my patriotism has been ablaze

O' American Isis
I grant you now the discretion you desired
you don't have to adhere to rules anymore

*The universe is coming by your side

I have been seeking a moment when
My paean would see the light
A melody when your serrated laugh
Crescendoes and obviates all evils
But what I'm truly wishing for
Is to be a scabbard to your sword
The bell that wakes you up at noon
A hymn that you know by heart
And the rituals that you adhere to
Tell me how I could shield
The furtive rhythm of your chords
To venerate the echoes of your fingertips
And be completely absorbed in your silhouette
I am proclaiming my paean
That seems five months of age
But in fact it has been decades
Trapped amongst verses and rhymes
If Hemingway was exchanging breaths
You could be his martini glass
Or the obsession of Shelley with Keats
Or maybe a beer bottle on Hank's grave
But the golden lotus has been outdated
For you are my fierce flames
To sanctify and to revive
And unlike Plath I'm living to see
When my paean would come to life



I wanted to speak of his powers
As King preached for liberty
The world seems to know of legends and Englishmen behind platforms
of heroes and villains on stages
and maybe of some med students explaining how unprotected *** leads to ***
But tongues have not yet spoken of his rampant ability
to be a beacon and a tempest
how he could raze and raise
abate and abet
I wanted to tell them
Why the soil recall his footsteps
And the leaves hiss as he exhales
But he dresses in polyester and he even walks unmasked
Everyone speaks of anarchism and GMOs
Then fetch a beer and watch the football game on live stream
I wonder if roses are cowards which embrace their raspy thorns
But then I remember how I would grasp you in a heartbeat
And I wanted to tell the world of your powers

A poem was always supposed to heal, or to help; at least in a way or another.
But this time is different, not even Rumi can do the work.
My mind is in a blank state-it has shut down.
With a trembling body and shaking wrists
Stealing glances and guilty kisses
Amongst each panic attack I drive through
I sense your sighs and get charged
Then see your phone screen and drop down
My nerves are threads ablaze
She has bigger eyes, her body is steady and so are her wrists
But she does not admire that surgical scar of yours
I seek refuge in it and that's the problem, I guess
She claims ownership, it is her right after all
She is priority
You write her name on every bill board
And I hold the ladder for you
You are writing my death note, you know
But these matters are small
For your phone screen will still glow
With messages that will make you grin
She demands ownership, it is her right after all
As I fight Gods to get those grains of sand you once stepped on
But she is priority, she is royalty.
This is not a poem, it is a tribute
To the time when I breathed you in and you breathed me out
We could have breathed forever
But my cells are attacking one another
And my mind is in a blank state
I have already mentioned that
But you see, I can not hold that ladder anymore
And I am in no state at all
Not one of priority - obviously.

I shall embalm the stars and hang them at your girdle,
There where pansies lie; free and mobile.
And I shall dress you in mountains,
Hoping that immortality and rise;
Would profoundly suffice.
But I don't have the means to do
What my senses inspire me to.
Thus, allow me to write you
In words more naked than flesh
With blood-drops; raw and grandiose.
Allow me to embellish the linings of your skin
With sacred letters and ambiguous hints.
I will meet you one day
At dawn or morn,
And we will foresee our radiant yore.
To the one I deeply venerate,
To whom my affection is inordinate.

It roams the streets,
That archaic figure - unaware of that voyage.
It is skinned, a little pale perhaps.
Seeking a beacon, a red light.
Amongst the people.
They are numbers.
They never tend to amaze me.
But there is something difficult to comprehend about that flesh; that tongue; the earthly scent of your mouth.
I roam the streets; how finite that voyage seems.
Your hometown; your current workplace.
They are not real, they are not you.
However, I am you - your keen countenance; the inked unsolvable equation.
It is jubilant - clutching your skin like a saviour.
Prepare your dirge,
Prepare the pansies.
My bones are leaving; my fingernails - weakening.
I am perilous by too much soul.
By the smoke that is reaching out.
My last forlorn attempt is not foreseeable.
*Find me before I find myself.

Eight months since I have seen
Green oak trees and glowing kites
Pale blue skies and star-crowded nights

Eight are the layers of pain
that have not seen any light
Eight are the loaded pistols of nostalgia
stacked on my shoulders

What is Eight?
To some; legs of a spider or that of an octopus
But Eight is the number printed on your football jersey

Maybe Eight are the cookies in that rusty jar;
But Eight is the day
of the eighth month
when you followed my paths

When the cold breeze hits me
as I smoke my eighth cigarette
and travel back in time
to when I rose in your love
up to the eighth sky

a rainbow of seven fears hit me by
and a force of friction dragged me back
to fall back in love with you
deep into eighth ground

*To the Eight I've always favored
I bitterly make a toast
Here's to the only number
that now I loathe the most

I shall write
But my papers can not endure the spilling blood
Seven months have passed since I last saw your face
The two steps that separated us
Are now replaced by a thousand miles
and I stand like a handicapped

I shall wait
When waiting is a sin
And death might lie behind my curtain

You will live
You will live
You will live on

My poetry will be your home
The letters will embrace you
You will live and thrive between the arms of my syllables
And my tears shall put you to sleep

You will be read
You will be read between the lines
You will be read in my lousy handwriting
You will be read in my failed attempts

and you will be seen
You will be seen in the color of my hair
you will be seen in all the black I wear

you will be heard
you will be heard in the songs on my playlist
you will be heard in my choice of words
and you will be heard, always, for you are the sacred name I swear by

Do not be afraid, my love
I will survive on the remains of the electric sparks you left in my system

I will stand as tall
as the mountain you dress in
and I will strive
to keep your memory aglow

But you will always
remember me
And I shall always
Keep you alive

I turn and burn
for my flames to keep you warm

and I welcome the bullets of distance
just to shield you from harm

for you I would walk
on water and on any sky

to sprinkle stars above your roof
and quench any weakening thirst

They asked me what it's like
to be in love with him

I said it's like the rotation of Earth
so familiar
like meeting the sunrise
each and every day at 06:34 AM

yet so new
like the solar eclipse
that occurs only once
after a handful of mundane years

You do not do, you do not do  
Any more, black shoe
In which I have lived like a foot  
For thirty years, poor and white,  
Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

Daddy, I have had to **** you.  
You died before I had time——
Marble-heavy, a bag full of God,  
Ghastly statue with one gray toe  
Big as a Frisco seal

And a head in the freakish Atlantic  
Where it pours bean green over blue  
In the waters off beautiful Nauset.  
I used to pray to recover you.
Ach, du.

In the German tongue, in the Polish town  
Scraped flat by the roller
Of wars, wars, wars.
But the name of the town is common.  
My ****** friend

Says there are a dozen or two.  
So I never could tell where you  
Put your foot, your root,
I never could talk to you.
The tongue stuck in my jaw.

It stuck in a barb wire snare.  
Ich, ich, ich, ich,
I could hardly speak.
I thought every German was you.  
And the language obscene

An engine, an engine
Chuffing me off like a Jew.
A Jew to Dachau, Auschwitz, Belsen.  
I began to talk like a Jew.
I think I may well be a Jew.

The snows of the Tyrol, the clear beer of Vienna  
Are not very pure or true.
With my gipsy ancestress and my weird luck  
And my Taroc pack and my Taroc pack
I may be a bit of a Jew.

I have always been scared of you,
With your Luftwaffe, your gobbledygoo.  
And your neat mustache
And your Aryan eye, bright blue.
Panzer-man, panzer-man, O You——

Not God but a *******
So black no sky could squeak through.  
Every woman adores a Fascist,  
The boot in the face, the brute  
Brute heart of a brute like you.

You stand at the blackboard, daddy,  
In the picture I have of you,
A cleft in your chin instead of your foot  
But no less a devil for that, no not  
Any less the black man who

Bit my pretty red heart in two.
I was ten when they buried you.  
At twenty I tried to die
And get back, back, back to you.
I thought even the bones would do.

But they pulled me out of the sack,  
And they stuck me together with glue.  
And then I knew what to do.
I made a model of you,
A man in black with a Meinkampf look

And a love of the rack and the *****.  
And I said I do, I do.
So daddy, I’m finally through.
The black telephone’s off at the root,  
The voices just can’t worm through.

If I’ve killed one man, I’ve killed two——
The vampire who said he was you  
And drank my blood for a year,
Seven years, if you want to know.
Daddy, you can lie back now.

There’s a stake in your fat black heart  
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.  
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you *******, I’m through.

He walks gracefully like the sun
You can not help but marvel at the sight of the tufts dancing on his forehead
His countenance pierces into your ***** and tickles your insides unmercifully
The ebony stars in the highest kingdom long for his attention, with him, there is no compromise, either he faces your dirges aptly and revives the bits of what-so-called hope, or he does not look at you at all.
No, you would not understand unless you see him, but beware the maze of his eyes, for I tell you..
My placid atoms rest like ember and every bit I have left of pride declares its obeisance.
His outburst of loud laughter makes the goddess of beauty mutter out of envy, and the distorted harmonies of my own seek refuge in between his eyelids, like the diffused light rays run into the twilight zone.
But listen, love
out of all that you are, all the sacred paeans chanted by your name, all the symphonies that you dress in, the land within your ring, the silence you stand amidst, all the birds, the tunes, the melodies, all the chocking sounds and all the ominous insecurities, all the serene electric waves, all this bafflement I could not comprehend nor the seraphs would comprehend
Out of all that you are
all what you are
is the annihilation of a bullet
that leaves pansies where it's shot.

I have written poems that hymn their love of mute birds
And poured the stars into their palms
I have burned their feathers into words
That shone like ember in your jars
I thought these birds were your guardians
And you'd succumb to my merciful massacre
I haven't realized it was obvious
That you were nothing but a traveller

I have written poems that hymn their love of hummingbirds
And sprinkled salt on their scars
I have turned their chords into pearls
Crimson-blooded and tars
I thought these birds were your audience
That would succumb to a wrangler
Now it is clearly obvious
That the letters of your name
And the venom of your face
Are but a constriction that is vascular

His palm is a sepulchre,
It holds captives and sun-rays.
Macabre consolation fractured his skin.
He who embalms the petals of my words,
to paint forlorn attempts.
With keen acumen he carves the coffins
And adorns the figures of decay.
As alchemists, he works,
to convert base spirits into colours;
Immortal for all the decades of disdain.
His palm is the afterlife,
It keeps hummingbirds and streams.
Unholy droplets cured his cells.
He who puts me on hold,
like soulless novels on his shelves.
As soothsayers, he says,
"You count your pulses; no longer."

Once amongst the burning flames
Where I stumbled upon names
Of demons who slashed my languid veins
And built a pride out of their remains
Once amongst the thunder roars
Where the sky witnessed clashes and wars
of a name that restlessly flies and soars
To drip its venom into my cores
Six years
of ignorance-clothed foresight
That withheld me from seeing the cost
Of a truth; that is crystal and bright
But now I should know best
Out of all the rest
Your name is that I loved the most

Naked is how I love you
like an autonomous grain of sand
skin against skin
and your furtive passions
composed nerve-cells
lavish with mellifluous vibrations
that wash away all signs of negative energy

Naked is how I crave you
that simple lithe figure
faded muscles and tufts of hair
a dimple with a non-existent twin
palliate a thriving surge

Naked, just as you lie
underneath the satin sheets,
and aquiline just as the same
succumbed to unremitting sparks
you are the motif of my every piece
*and you are that act of symbiosis
between the canvas
and the paint

He wandered the pages of a languid space
a servant of the abyss
in ghastly fear, he stepped and stumbled
upon my ruins as his heartrace tumbled
down the stairs of the starry abyss
a trajectory of dread
his fingertips painted
of words with heads
letters with legs
and poems of death
on the walls of the abyss
he, of all, the servant of those
who are older than we
shuddered at the noise
of the silence behind
and of what was waiting ahead
narrow paths; alas
servant; alas; were crowded with dread
he wandered the pages of a languid space
where dandelions embraced his uncanny footsteps
and a rebirth, they claimed
he caressed the poems of my demonic despair
what have gotten the servant
to my robotic disgrace
as he escaped the abyss
where my dirges; remained

Distorted petals of rosemary flesh
Dance on the sound of heavy breaths
Wherein tunes of black distress
Seek for a happy-ever-after dress

Greetings for the blooming death
Toying with my life like a game of chess
Seeking for a button to press
To shut me down, and clean my mess

Master, have you not seen the depths?
Of the anguish swinging between our chests
Oh dear, where is that redress
You once promised to express

Master, come and open the door
Order death to remain afar
Release my spirit on a distant shore
Or keep it in your rusty jar

I am enigmatically saturated
in a silhouette
that deluded the eyes
of my innumerous bits

has it
or has it not
bewitched the demons
and turned the scale
from black to white

But I shall implant
the keen arrow
and spill the venom
of X and Y

now I see
a bow in your right hand
rage in your left
that took the arrow
with a tighter grasp

as it creep,
into the deep
into the crimson liquid of mine

how my cries
desperately thrive
how they bloom
in a gown of gloom

yet how they sleep
by those bits, unreleased
against your silhouette
saturated
un deceased

I, a dusty piece of gold
standing on the lattice, peering
searching for a token of life
when suddenly the rustling steps
recklessly electrifying the outgrown grass on my doorstep
and I,
half-existent
half-hope
imprisoned in a cage of oblivion
but listen, thief
as you despise the dust on my skeleton
I'll hang your laughs on the walls
where lilies will grow from the echoes of your fingers
catch the breeze that tickled your cheek
and throw it in a jar to color the void
I'll knit a ghost out of your grimaces
that will keep me company when the space thrives
and your odor that's time-challenging
It belongs to the days of yore
The days where poets were to rule the world
and a blow in the dust brought life back to life

*Parting from the strings of liberty;
the gold misses its thief.