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Christy Lei Nov 2018
not a
white lily
but a heavy
plastic stick —
imagine myself as
an archangel holding
his scale and weighing
souls on the judgement day:
a palm-up blessing, like someone
sitting on a golden throne, watching
the ****** being separated from the saved.
(the **** is getting cold)
a medieval triptych: endoderm, ectoderm,
mesoderm, just egg tempera on panel,
not pan-fry-able, but nutritious still.
wet chicken, severed dandelion
heads fluttering in the air

now it is lighter,
a feather in
my hand,
a pink
line.
Christy Lei Oct 2018
a rain-soaked soul
dwells in
a sun-kissed body.
Christy Lei Oct 2018
The old broken faucet has lost
all her *** appeal:
rusts crawl over her silvery spine,
molds grow into her fleshy bone marrow —
a piercing neck pain
forces her to bow down, she starts sobbing like
a widow’s red runny nose, shedding
cold iron tears in this decade-long winter.
But her lust penetrates the dark in a
filthy glimmer, with a raging libido,
she lubricates relentlessly
to rebel
against her miserable aging,
the physical abuse and body shaming,
the profane hands that exploited her
and objectified her as a mere metallic tool, no —
she was born with a sacred task to cleanse the world!
Revenge.
Her wrinkled mouth salivates
for this forbidden idea, unquenched, unheard.
For once, she wants to clear her throat
and curse like a loud flush toilet, but
her vocal tract is simply not
built that way — she can’t even utter a word
in her native language, nor sing
the national anthem she knows by heart
since birth.
She murmurs something like an incantation
or a wishful thinking,
probably some magical pseudo-words
to allure a lover,
an ignorant one, who would pity her
misfortune, embrace her
scars, treat her nicely
as a ******
and imbibe her bitter dew in bliss — it’s a catharsis
she’s been waiting for!
How delusional, what awaits her
is her own demise and menopause.
Christy Lei Oct 2018
9 p.m., the sky, lilac and indigo,
blurred; a glimpse of rosiness, raw and
gold, fading into each other’s presence,
perfect; the clueless
hue before ******, failed;
cues of intimacy, only physical.


We walk fast, amid the sea of ruins,
birds and fish passing
by, damp, salty; inverted passengers
made of paper, pale—his face
foreign to me; but the clouds above
us, soft, chunks of
white chromosomes floating,
fragments of obliviousness, bleached—
the Buddha’s face
appears somewhere; the smell of soil
ensues; the solid earth, flesh, and possibility.


I am not mad at him, but all the
strangeness: tears
shed upward; feathers freed
from the rib cage; bones
torn into incoherent languages; teeth
striking abrasive words, and jokes.
A vein inside me
broken; crisp; melanin spreading
on the surface of my heart, stealthily,
the subtle beauty of hidden
secrets, scars; present feelings
choking on
distant feelings, the shades of long lost
children, hungry, yet trivial to us.


Yes, p.m. is not a word, he said; but I
let syllables fall apart; down
to the origin, the cave, his form
unfathomable, but fire, dancing
shadows of myth, mocking at us—
the storytellers.
Christy Lei Oct 2018
Behind the thin screen, our fingers
gently touch, though unseen; the texture of his thumbs
prints with mine, leaving a trail of his
delicate genes; the heat at his fingertip
flows into my veins, climbing on my
both arms like soft summer vines. Paralysis,
parallel universe, paradise: I picked these
words for my feeling. While my friend’s mad, stop smiling
at your phone like an idiot!, she shouted at me
using ALL-CAPS, how rude—
he never used all-caps to me, a real
gentleman. Later, I told him I was addicted to
texting him, how dangerous, I looked up this
very symptom, and they said something cool about my
brain: the insatiable reward circuit in my
hypothalamus, dopamine molecules
jumping between my neurons, the uncertainty, the double
blind-folded ***, euphoric, warm, fuzzy—
basically like an ******, they concluded.
But I was forgetful, like any other drug addict, I threw
all the warnings and science into the air, and
we text, on and on,
our pores speak, our fluids fever,
our eyes flirt, our fingers glide—I never knew if
one day we would hit
the lethal dose, but it must be sweet to get high and
die holding hands by his side.
Christy Lei Oct 2018
the post-war rain falls on the city
ruins, a graveyard of dust,
gunpowder tea
dire-green.
each raindrop itches
the skin like a blade of grass,
fresh-cut mint leaves razorsharp clean.
bones break — celery crisp — tears pour — lime sour,
heart burns — cactus stings — stomach turns — ***** bile-green.
but the alcoholic rain rinses the wounds of the
earth, fresh ozone sanitizes the sin.
the street gleams, dews of aloe
vera soothing the old
scars left by the
fire bombing:
warsaw is
weeping
now.
Christy Lei Oct 2018
at the hot dense center of
the cosmic *****,
the cloud spins
as it collapses, contracting,
teasing the hidden
****** of the universe —
a frenzy ****** of the solar nebula
discharges random
proto-planets, among them is
our embryonic Earth.


let all the amniotic fluids, the metallic
and silicate liquids, the red spicy
volcanic magma, the sweet
water vapor, the rainfall,
lukewarm saltwater
*** that makes up
the oceans
and lakes,
let them spill over
the continental crust,
cover its thick skin, rocky veins,
let the long river split into two ever-
flowing streams; watch the double-helix spin:


  X    X                X    Y
   xylophonic,               xenophobic,
    why me,               why you,
why us?               why —
the world               divides.
     two hemispheres,               four cerebral lobes:
             left  &  right,               america, australia,
                    joined by one               antarctica, afro-eurasia,
    equator, the corpus callosum.              all found in one human skull.


but what if
science is a conspiracy and geology a
faux pas like phrenology? —
and the world is flat:

we are all
test-tube babies
bred in a Petri dish, cells
cultured in a round celestial disc.
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