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Andrei Corre Mar 2022
You slip through my fingers
Such as the freeform curves of the wind
Such as the hem of the sea offshore
A long dream from the sinews of my mind
You slip through my fingers in kind

So distant, so far away--I don't wish you to go
Go and slip away, eerie as a night's phantom
Go and you'll leave me in yesteryear's joy
Gone cold, singing soliloqy, grappling with forlorn
Should you slip through my fingers one morn

And your shadow'll overshadow the you I know
As if continents have surfaced between us
As if we speak in different tongues--not a mem'ry
But a past life affair unknown to your mind
My love, must you slip through my fingers in kind?
Andrei Corre Feb 2022
i m p a s s e – for some time it’s that temptation / to step back, knowing you can always come / home to being vintage and pre-loved; I stand / on the white fence of falling over / and falling back—this seesaw of a timeline / patience breathes me life

l i m i n a l – but I was limestone diamond / climb mountains to chase the void / to be estranged more so / the omnipresent detachment / for all I care about is a curse / I could never be too close / for seeking indefinite answers

a r d e n t – paint me pictures that loosen these shackles / I would know to smolder / make these bygones ashen / I’m the doltish lover who sinks first / then flourishes second
inspired by zodiac modalities. October 2021.
Andrei Corre Oct 2021
We live in the liminal of imagined dreams

                                           What if

We parked our shoes and dust our sleeves

The wounds are clean
                                                            What if

We mean what we spoke

And pinky swear and it’s still there

Feed the elephant of what it craved

Carcasses of threshold crossed

                           It’s you and me

Finally; what if

         I die every day loving you

And silently you do the same

          And our lungs are fresh air
Andrei Corre Oct 2021
I look at her and saw dainty hands gripping an    
  adult’s finger,
Her little mouth singing for the first time—world’s
  sign of life.
I chortle thinking we shared the same shrill cry of
Breath. Now her fingertips know by routine all the
  keys they would press
And her palms—soft and feminine (I buy the same
  hand cream she uses)—
Rarely fatigued in household chores, while my hands
  are burnt and wounded,
Hard and rough ‘round the edges. Our mouths the
  similar absent stories
On the dining table drinking instant noodles soup,
  I see

How her hair is pulled up above her shoulders; the
  afternoon sun,
The scent of soil on her skin, a chorale of
  friends, sneaky attempts to dance
On fiestas with her cousins. My universe is vast
  with book and TV characters
My mind a horizon of imaginative dimensions and situations
I wish happened. Swimming in paper-thin planets
was inherited from her;
My decision to suffer trying to fabricate one came from my dreams that could’ve been
Potential realities. But if I’m honest, the swamp between
us might’ve also contributed

Now it’s a river with such erratic currents, but always the tranquil movement that warns 'bout
Its doubtful deepness. I was led to reach the abyss
  each time
I forget the special way my mother loves me. When I
  was forced to pick up the shards
Of glass under the cooking stove and I bled the
  blood pulsing through her veins.
I found there the apologies. I only then understood
  how wrong it was
Because it blended so well with everything the kids
  and I perceived as right.
Just to grow a little taller interacting with others’ half-full glasses while we glue ours
Back together; so they look like they can be filled
  and can pour from one cup to another

Her fingers are wrinkled
as we resurface the waters. I’m also getting used to their
Caresses. I wouldn’t flinch for all that’s coming is gentle.
I also notice the thinning hair,
Speckle of silver streaks. And despite the seemingly
  ocean of a gap, on the seashore, we
Are connected in the umbilical. In her eyes the
Traces of her youth and how we love the same
Way we are mistreated

Andrei Corre Sep 2021
Grant me witnessing all ‘round I go
Let me be uncomfortable
In my sadness
In my spite
In my veins our ancestors’ strife
Their oppression chiseled in depths
Of my subconscious—mayn’t I forget
In my every privileged sigh
In every nightmare’s death
And all of my trivial achievement
That their blood inks this gazette
That my soul echoes their last breath  
For justice—mayn’t I
Move idly and yield
To transient relief
To false gods
To defeatism
That my heart numbs
To the cries of my people
To the destruction of our homes
To the monarchy of traitors
Let me hear it everywhere I go
Let me be uncomfortable
49 years ago, the Philippines succumbed to Marcos' Martial Law.
Andrei Corre Sep 2021
For the shards underneath my kitchen stove.
i run my fingers through moments thawed
clawing, catching, grasping—
drip, drip, dripping mercury gold
a rupture veiled with wisdom sought
like a Band-Aid on my pinky toe,
a mere stain ‘cross the tablecloth
when every gasp ***** holes anew
deep in bosoms pulsing violet blues

For the wrinkles i failed smoothing through.
paracosmic ashes from bridges burnt
decaying below my point of view, overdue
adieus stashed ‘tween your books and
pertinacious passion seeping through
my pillowcase i tucked in place
souvenirs of potential
framed laced pinkies sitting down
with my strewed syllables marooned and brown
a lynx vanishing with clementine eyes

Until the chalice of chrysalis manifests.
come ‘morrow is an acquainted rue
when all but my love subdued
February 2021. Why is this still accurate?
Andrei Corre Aug 2021

me long enough
that  I  could  no longer
strife and anger for myself. You
carried all these sins and melancholy
on your back, only letting me taste the
silver spoon in my mouth. You taught me
me to sit and behave, make no unappealing
sounds, but mother, your daughter belonged
to anger and strife for your mother, all her other
children, and for you whose only words breath that
of broken reassurance and empty pledges of safety. All
but a solace chant against reeking tyranny. My ears grew
to the cacophony
of revolt in between your lullabies.
The blood of the covenant assimilated
with the water of the womb. So mother,
I ask you to pony my hair now and forgive
me. Your children will dot all
thoroughfares and bellow 'no'
for you. So you do not have
to kneel to every friend, to
ev’ry conqueror, stroke their
*****, then cry yourself to sleep
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