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 Aug 2016 Lydia Chin
Samantha
There's nothing but stardust
On her fingers
And her knees
In her hair and her eyes
She's captured between his love
And her life
How could she leave him?
When he says he's the moon
And stars too belong in the sky
She dreams of running
But he says she'd only get so far without him
So it must be true
Because stars follow the moon
And she's stardust
Kiss me until we form a universe in our mouths.
 Aug 2016 Lydia Chin
Fizza Abbas
Sprinkling stardust on me,
I need to survive and
justify my existence,
Elation has become an only
choice;
Allow me for once to get vigilant
and wise!
Nostalgia is a man I have memories with,
                                    but no knowledge of.
He is a tree rooted in mystery
with leaves that shade
         the hungry mouth of a river
         malnourished--
pale skin stretched over tendon.
Release
palm upturned in offering
always offering
even with nothing to give.
Nostalgia
                 never learned hatred,
                                                       but bitterness
cold winter biting at smoking hands
bony fingers raw and red and reaching
                                                        ­             out out out
for empty air
Upheaval of the present
Takes you back to nostalgia
Fragments of memories
Plays in your mind
Incoherent thoughts edited
A certain place in the past
Where a part of you lived
No matter how far you have come
Nostalgia takes over
It’s a romance with the past
The vintage film in black n white
Now plays, colored with imagination
Nostalgia always
Keeps me awake through the night
I wish it would leave.
First Haiku
 Aug 2016 Lydia Chin
Jodie-Elaine
Photographers step out of hazy stairwells, tired eyes adjusting to dim light, looking for
their next muse.
“Works of art take time” they tell themselves
they look for the next spark of intrigue, their next fix.
You’ll find them on public transport, in old cafes:
cameras slung around their necks like billiard boards captioned ‘the end is nigh’.
Buzzing with anticipation of their next good catch, biting the lips of their disgruntled
faces like ancient gladiators biting the dust.
Castaways, oil paintings once brilliant and beautiful thrown into apartment blocks and
grey buildings,
ruins of art cast adrift by time.
Haunted by still frames and possibilities, all burned onto retinas, they stumble across
traffic jams;
finding beautiful people, forcing themselves into their lives.
Fleeting whispers rotate into double takes and flickers on the film of a Polaroid camera;
the subjects become muses,
cities are reborn as golden
flood into spotlights:
vibrant, reckless, insomniac.
Are you listening to yourself?

High staring at myself on neon lights

Playing with the powerful immortals
 Aug 2016 Lydia Chin
i
the brightest
city light
of them all
is the
**m o o n.
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